Japmen are six-faced and have three hearts

Japmen are six-faced and have three hearts is Rodrigues’s warning to Blackthorne: a memorable image of the difference between public appearance, private feeling, and what remains unknown even to intimates. Its force lies partly in that distinction and partly in its source: Rodrigues presents the saying through a sweeping, contemptuous judgment of the Japanese, so it reveals his suspicion as much as it offers Blackthorne a way to interpret unfamiliar behavior.

The saying and its speaker

Rodrigues gives the warning while Blackthorne is preparing to leave him. Blackthorne has thanked him for saving his life and said that they are even; Rodrigues answers that he still owes him some truth, in part payment. He tells Blackthorne, “Never forget Japmen’re six-faced and have three hearts.” He then describes a heart shown to the world, another reserved for friends and family, and a secret one known only to its owner. The image is layered rather than simply a claim that people lie: outward conduct, trusted intimacy, and an inward self do not necessarily coincide.

But Rodrigues frames the metaphor with the assertion that the Japanese are treacherous and beyond redemption. That conclusion is his own prejudiced generalization, not a neutral explanation of the saying. The warning therefore has two directions: it advises Blackthorne to distrust what he can see, while exposing the sailor’s readiness to turn cultural difference into evidence of moral inferiority.

Deference, violence, and what can be seen

The early street encounter gives the saying a vivid social setting. When an armed young samurai arrives, the Japanese present fall to their knees with their heads bowed; Father Sebastio alone remains standing. The samurai cuts off the priest and directs Mura, the headman, to explain. Mura speaks rapidly, pointing to Blackthorne, the ship, and the priest, while the armed man questions him and then gestures contemptuously at the priest and Blackthorne. The visible order is unmistakable: deference governs the street, and the armed man controls who may speak and who must answer.

A later encounter makes the cost of violating that order explicit. Kasigi Omi dismisses the group, and everyone bows except one man, who deliberately rises. Omi kills him with a swift stroke; the others remain motionless, and Omi places his foot on the corpse. The scene shows how much behavior is shaped by public rank and danger. It does not disclose the inward motives of those who kneel, but it demonstrates why outward compliance cannot by itself tell Blackthorne what people think or feel.

Ritual, interruption, and concealment

The saying also resonates in less violent moments, where etiquette makes social meaning visible but fragile. During an audience, Toranaga rises and those present begin to bow. Blackthorne interrupts to ask one last question about speaking with Mariko. He recognizes that Toranaga had ended the interview and that his words have left the others uncertain whether to finish their bows, wait, or begin again. His breach is not a hidden scheme: it is an unplanned disruption that makes the rules of a formal exchange suddenly conspicuous.

At Osaka, concealment becomes deliberate. When Ishido steps forward and pulls the curtains apart, Blackthorne begins bellowing and dancing like a maniac. For an instant Toranaga is visible behind Ishido, disguised as Kiritsubo; Blackthorne believes several observers may have recognized him. Blackthorne thrusts a parchment through a gap in the curtains and offers a babbling explanation, drawing attention to himself as Ishido’s sword comes out. The scene turns appearance into an active decoy: the performance does not make everyone ignorant, but it buys a moment in which recognition, suspicion, and action collide.

Privacy and the saying’s limits

Mariko’s conduct aboard ship offers a quieter counterpart. She watches Rodrigues and his mate speak but cannot hear their words. The narration explains that, in paper houses, privacy depends on politeness and consideration; people are trained both to hear and not to hear for the good of all. Here, social life requires more than hidden hearts. It relies on restraint: the ability to notice without intruding, and to preserve another person’s privacy even when complete physical separation is impossible.

Read beside that practice, Rodrigues’s warning is useful but incomplete. The novel repeatedly shows that gestures can be governed by rank, etiquette, danger, or deliberate performance, and that observers may have only partial knowledge of what those gestures mean. Yet the same scenes resist reducing every silence or bow to treachery. The saying gives Blackthorne a compact image for uncertainty; the surrounding episodes show that uncertainty is real, while Rodrigues’s sweeping condemnation is only one interpretation of it.