In the bamboo forest surrounding Ojii-san’s thatched hut, in any case, live countless sparrows, and they raise a deafening racket morning and evening. In late autumn of this year, on a morning when crystalline pellets of frost crunch musically underfoot, Ojii-san finds a little sparrow upside down in his garden, flopping about with a broken leg. He picks the bird up and carries her into his room, where he sets her by the fire and brings her some food. Even after the sparrow’s leg is healed, she stays on in Ojii-san’s room, fluttering out to the garden from time to time, or hopping about on the veranda, pecking at the crumbs Ojii-san tosses out to her.
“You filthy thing!” Obaa-san shouts when the sparrow inadvertently poops on the veranda. She chases after the bird, and Ojii-san silently takes some paper from his pocket and cleans up the droppings. As the days go by, the sparrow seems to learn whom she can count on to be kind to her and whom she can’t. When the old woman is home alone she takes refuge in the garden or under the eaves, but as soon as Ojii-san returns she comes flying. She sits atop his head or hops about on his desk or drinks from the inkstone with a tiny gulping sound or hides in the brush stand, interrupting Ojii-san’s studies with her constant games. But Ojii-san, for the most part, ignores her. He does not, like so many bird lovers, give his pet an affected name or speak to it. (“Oh, Rumi, you must be lonely too!”) He displays, rather, absolute indifference to where the sparrow might be or what she might be up to. But from time to time he silently rises, shuffles to the pantry, scoops up a handful of grain, and scatters it on the veranda.
No sooner does Obaa-san exit with the laundry today than the sparrow comes fluttering back from beneath the eaves and lands on the edge of the desk, where Ojii-san sits with his cheek on his hand. Ojii-san looks at the sparrow with no change of expression. But this is where the tragedy begins.
After a pause of some moments, Ojii-san says, “I see,” and sighs heavily. He spreads out a book on his desk. He turns a page, and then another, and then he rests his cheek on his hand again and gazes off into the middle distance. “So she wasn’t born to do laundry. Still dreams of romance, I guess, with a face like that.” He cracks a small, wry smile.
It’s then that the sparrow on his desk begins to speak in human language.
“And you?” she says.
Ojii-san isn’t particularly startled.
“Me? Me, well... I was born to tell the truth.”
“But you don’t say anything at all.”
“That’s because the people in this world are all liars. I got sick of talking with them. All they do is lie. And the worst part is that they don’t even realize they’re doing it.”
“That’s just a lazy man’s excuse. Once you human beings acquire a little learning, you tend to become awfully arrogant. Look at yourself. You don’t do anything at all. Remember the old proverb? ‘Don’t wake the house while still a-bed’? Who are you to criticize others?”
“You’ve got a point.” Ojii-san remains unruffled. “But it’s a good thing that men like me exist. I may seem to be good for nothing, but that’s not completely true. There is something that only I can do. I don’t know whether or not the opportunity to show my true worth will arise during my lifetime, but if it does I assure you I will expend every effort. Until such a time should come, however—well, until then it’s silence, exile, and reading.”
“You don’t say.” The sparrow cocks her head. “That’s the sort of empty, self-serving boast you expect to hear from men who are tyrants at home and cowards abroad. ‘The Venerable’—isn’t that what you call yourself? Trying to find comfort in dreams of a past that will never come again, rather than hope for the future. You’re pitiable, really. Your boasts don’t even amount to real boasts. They’re more like the grumblings of a disgruntled old crackpot. It’s not as if you’re involved in anything of any value to the world.”
“When you put it that way, I can see your point.” Ojii-san is, if anything, even less ruffled now. “But the fact is that I’m engaged in something laudable at this very moment: in a word, desirelessness. Easy to say, hard to do. Just look at that Obaa-san of ours. After ten-plus years at the side of a man like me you’d think she would have abandoned worldly desires, but apparently that’s not the case. She still seems to have some notions of romance. Hilarious.”
Obaa-san sticks her head in through the doorway.
“I do not have— Say! Who were you talking to? I heard a girl’s voice. Where did your visitor go?”
“Visitor?” Ojii-san mumbles unintelligibly, as usual.
“I beg your pardon. You were definitely speaking to someone just now. And speaking ill of me, at that. Well, well. Interesting! With me, you’re always mumbling as if it’s too much trouble to speak, but with your young visitor you’re like a different person, babbling happily away in that youthful voice. You’re the one who’s dreaming of romance, apparently. You’ve gone all goopy with it.”
“You think?” Ojii-san replies vacantly. “But there’s no one here.”
“Stop teasing me!” Obaa-san is genuinely angry now. She plops down on the veranda. “What in the world do you take me for? Heaven knows how much I’ve put up with all these years. You treat me like a complete fool. Well, I’m not from a wealthy family and have no education, so maybe I’m simply no match for you, but now you’ve gone too far. I was still young when I came to your home as a servant, to take care of you, and before I knew it, it turned into this. I knew that your parents were good and proper folks, so I thought that being matched with their son wouldn’t be such a—”
“Lies. All lies.”
“Oh? Name one. Name one thing I just said that’s a lie. This is exactly how it was. Back then, I understood you better than anyone. I felt that it had to be me, that no one but I could look after you properly. What part of that is a lie? Tell me,” she demands, her face darkening.
“The whole thing’s a lie. Back then you were all about base desires. Period.”
“What is that supposed to mean? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Quit trying to belittle me. I married you because I thought I could help you. It had nothing to do with ‘base desires.’ You say the most vulgar things sometimes! You have no idea how lonely I’ve been day and night since marrying you. Is it too much to ask you to toss me a kind word now and then? Look at other married couples! No matter how poor they might be, at least they still enjoy themselves chatting and laughing together over dinner. I’m not a greedy woman by any means. I could endure any hardship and still be satisfied if you would only say a gentle word to me once in a while.”
“Here we go again. I see what you’re doing. Still trying to put it all on me with that same old tale of woe. It won’t work. Everything you say is deceitful. You just spew any old thing, according to your mood. Who do you think made me such a taciturn man? ‘Chatting and laughing’ about what over dinner? I’ll tell you what—their neighbors. Criticizing. Tearing others down. Nothing but backbiting, malicious gossip, all based on the mood of the moment. You know, I’ve never, ever heard you praise anyone. I’m a weak-willed man myself. When I’m around judgmental people, I too start to grow judgmental. That’s what scares me. And that’s why I decided to stop talking. The only thing people like you can see is other people’s faults, and you’re oblivious to the horror in your own hearts. You people terrify me.”
“I understand. You’ve grown tired of me. You’re sick of this old woman. I get it. So, where did your visitor go? She’s hiding somewhere? I know I heard the voice of a young woman. With someone like that to talk to it must be unbearable to have to discuss anything with an old woman like me. You can sit there looking enlightened and talking about desirelessness, but when it’s a young woman you’re talking to you start babbling like an excited little boy. Even your voice changes. You disgust me.”
“Fine, if that’s the way you feel.”
“It is not fine. Where is your guest? It would be rude for me not to greet her. I may not be much to look at, but I’m still th
e lady of the house here. Let me greet her. You mustn’t keep stepping all over me.”
Ojii-san jerks his chin toward the sparrow on his desk and says, “That’s her.”
“What? Stop your joking. Sparrows can’t talk.”
“This one does. Says some very perceptive things too.”
“You’re just mean enough to keep on teasing me like that, aren’t you? All right, then.” She reaches out abruptly and snatches the bird from the desk. “I’ll pluck out her tongue so she can’t say such witty things! You always have been a little too sweet on this bird. It’s sickening to watch, and this is the perfect chance to put an end to it! You’ve let your young visitor escape, and now the sparrow will pay with her tongue. Serves you right.” And with that she pries open the sparrow’s beak and plucks her little petal-like tongue right out. The sparrow flutters frantically and flies away, disappearing high into the pale blue sky.
Ojii-san stares silently after her.
And the following morning, as we all know, he begins combing the bamboo forest.
“Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?
Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?”
Snow falls day after day. But each day Ojii-san takes his search deeper into the bamboo forest. He’s like a man possessed. Thousands and tens of thousands of sparrows inhabit the forest. One would think it nearly impossible to find, among such numbers, one whose tongue is missing, but Ojii-san forges ahead with an extreme sort of fervor, day after day.
“Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?
Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?”
He has never before in his life acted with such reckless passion. Something that has lain dormant inside him would seem now, for the first time, to have raised its head, but what that something is, no one knows, not even the author (I, Dazai). A man who has always felt like a guest in his own home, constrained and ill-at-ease, suddenly finds the state of being that suits him best and chases after it. We could call that state “love” and have done with it, but the psychology expressed by the word “love” as it is commonly and casually used in daily life may perhaps be far from the wretched melancholy in this Ojii-san’s heart. He searches on relentlessly. For the first time in his life he’s taking decisive action and will not be deterred.
“Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?
Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?”
Not that he actually vocalizes these words as he wanders about in search of her, of course. But the wind seems to whisper in his ears, and at some point, as he tramps through the deep snow of the bamboo forest, this queer little ditty—not quite a song and not quite a chant—wells up in his heart in harmony with that whispering wind.
One night there descends a snowfall unusual in its scale even for the Sendai region. The following day the weather clears, and the sun rises upon a silver world of almost blinding brilliance. Ojii-san gets up before dawn, pulls his straw boots on, and makes his way to a new part of the snowy forest.
“Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?
Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?”
An enormous accumulation of snow that has settled on the canopy of bamboo suddenly breaks through, falling directly on top of Ojii-san. It catches him just right and he falls face down in the snow, unconscious. Crossing the borderline to a dream-like, phantasmal world, he hears a number of whispering voices.
“Poor man! Dead—after all that.”
“He’s not dead. He’s just been knocked for a loop.”
“He’ll freeze to death for sure, though, lying out here in the snow.”
“True. We’ll have to help him somehow. What a mess. If that child had just gone to meet him right from the start, this never would have happened. What’s wrong with her, anyway?”
“O-Teru-san?”
“Yes. I understand that she hurt her mouth, but she hasn’t shown herself since.”
“She’s in bed. Her tongue was plucked out. She can’t speak, just weeps silently day and night.”
“They plucked out her tongue? That’s depraved.”
“I know. And it was this one’s wife who did it. She’s not a bad old girl normally, but she must’ve been in a nasty mood that day. Suddenly grabbed O-Teru-san and ripped her tongue right out.”
“Were you there?”
“Yes. It was horrible. Human beings are like that, though. They’ll do the most unbelievably cruel things when you least expect it.”
“I’ll bet it was jealousy. I know that house pretty well myself, and this old man is awfully hard on his wife—treats her with absolute contempt. Nobody likes to see a man fuss over his woman, but this fellow’s just too damn hard on his. And O-Teru, taking advantage of that antagonism, got much too friendly with the man. Hey, no one’s innocent here. Let it go.”
“Oh? Maybe you’re the one who’s jealous! You had a crush on O-Teru-san yourself, didn’t you? You can’t hide it from me. Didn’t I hear you sighing one day about how O-Teru-san had the most beautiful voice in the whole bamboo forest?”
“I’m not the vulgar sort of man who gets jealous of anybody. But she did have a good voice—better than yours, at least—and she’s good-looking to boot.”
“You’re mean.”
“Now, now, you two, don’t be fighting. Nobody needs that. What are we going to do about this man? If we leave the poor fellow here, he’ll die. Think how badly he wanted to see O-Teru-san! Tramping through the snowy forest looking for her day after day, and then, to have it end like this—you have to feel sorry for him. He has a sincere heart, at least. I can tell that much.”
“What? A damn fool, is what he is. A man his age chasing a sparrow around? Hopeless.”
“Don’t say such things. Let’s bring him to her. O-Teru-san seems to want to see him too. She can’t speak, of course, without her tongue, but when we told her he was looking for her she just lay there shedding tears. I feel sorry for both of them. What do you say we join forces and try to help them out?”
“Not me. I’m not one who has any sympathy for affairs of the heart.”
“It’s not an affair of the heart. You just don’t understand. We want to help them, don’t we, everyone? This sort of thing isn’t about logic or reasoning.”
“Precisely, precisely. Allow me to take charge of the operation. There’s nothing to it. We’ll just ask the gods. Whenever you’re desperate to help someone else, against all reason, it’s best to ask the gods. My own father taught me that. He said that in such a situation the gods will grant you any wish you make. So just wait here for a bit, everyone, and I’ll go ask the god of the forest shrine.”
When Ojii-san suddenly opens his eyes, he finds himself in a pretty little room with bamboo pillars. He sits up and looks around just as a door slides open and a doll the size of an adult walks in.
“Oh! You’re awake!”
“Ah.” Ojii-san smiles good-naturedly. “But where am I?”
“The Sparrows Inn,” says the pretty, doll-like girl, kneeling politely in front of Ojii-san and blinking up at him with big, round eyes.
“I see.” Ojii-san nods serenely. “And you, then, are the sparrow who lost her tongue?”
“No, O-Teru-san is in bed in the inner chamber. My name is O-Suzu. I’m O-Teru-san’s best friend.”
“Is that so? Then the sparrow who had her tongue plucked out is named O-Teru?”
“Yes. She’s a very sweet and gentle person. You must go in and see her. The poor thing. She can’t speak, and all she does is weep.”
“Take me to her.” Ojii-san stands up. “Where’s her room?”
“This way, please.” With a flutter of her long kimono sleeves, O-Suzu rises and glides to the veranda. Ojii-san follows, taking care not to slip on the narrow walkway of slick green bamboo.
“Here we are. Please go in.”
The inner chamber is well lit. The ground outside is covered with bamboo grass through which babbles a shall
ow, swift-moving stream.
O-Teru is lying in her futon beneath a small red silk quilt. She is an even more elegant and beautiful doll than O-Suzu, though her cheeks are somewhat pale. She gazes at Ojii-san with big round eyes from which tears promptly begin to flow.
Ojii-san says nothing but sits on the floor beside her pillow and gazes out at the babbling stream. O-Suzu quietly retreats, leaving the two of them alone.
They don’t need to speak. Ojii-san sighs softly. But it’s not a melancholy sigh. He is experiencing peace of mind for the first time in his life, and this sigh is an expression of quiet happiness.
O-Suzu reappears to set out a tray of sake and snacks. “Enjoy,” she says, and withdraws once more.
Ojii-san pours himself a cup of sake and looks out at the garden stream again. Ojii-san is no drinker. One cup is enough to make him tipsy. He picks up the chopsticks and plucks a single bamboo shoot from the tray. It’s wonderfully delicious. But Ojii-san isn’t a big eater. He sets the chopsticks back down.
The door slides open again, and O-Suzu brings in more sake and a different dish. Kneeling before Ojii-san, she holds out the ceramic bottle and says, “Another cup?”
“No, thanks, I’ve had more than enough. Awfully good sake, though.” He isn’t just being polite. The words spill spontaneously from his lips.
“I’m glad you like it. We call it Dew of the Bamboo Grass.”
“It’s too good.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s too good.”
“Oh, look! O-Teru-san is smiling! She probably wants to say something, but...”
O-Teru shakes her head, and Ojii-san turns to address her directly for the first time.
“No need to say anything. Isn’t that so?”
O-Teru beams. She blinks her big eyes and nods repeatedly.