Found in Translation

by Frank Wynne

  But we admired them always when we met them outside, or when they walked past our windows; in winter, in fur jackets and toques to match; in summer, in hats trimmed with flowers, and with colored parasols in their hands. We talked, however, about these girls in a way that would have made them mad with shame and rage, if they could have heard us.

  “If only he does not get hold of little Tanya!” said the baker, suddenly, in an anxious tone of voice.

  We were silent, for these words troubled us. Tanya had quite gone out of our minds, supplanted, put on one side by the strong, fine figure of the soldier.

  Then began a lively discussion; some of us maintained that Tanya would never lower herself so; others thought she would not be able to resist him, and the third group proposed to give him a thrashing if he should try to annoy Tanya. And, finally, we all decided to watch the soldier and Tanya, and to warn the girl against him. This brought the discussion to an end.

  Four weeks had passed by since then; during this time the soldier baked white bread, walked about with the gold-embroidery girls, visited us often, but did not talk any more about his conquests; only twisted his mustache, and licked his lips lasciviously.

  Tanya called in as usual every morning for “little kringels,” and was as gay and as nice and friendly with us as ever. We certainly tried once or twice to talk to her about the soldier, but she called him a “goggle-eyed calf,” and made fun of him all round, and that set our minds at rest. We saw how the gold-embroidery girls carried on with the soldier, and we were proud of our girl; Tanya’s behavior reflected honor on us all; we imitated her, and began in our talks to treat the soldier with small consideration.

  She became dearer to us, and we greeted her with more friendliness and kindliness every morning.

  One day the soldier came to see us, a bit drunk, and sat down and began to laugh. When we asked him what he was laughing about, he explained to us:

  “Why two of them—that Lydka girl and Grushka—have been clawing each other on my account. You should have seen the way they went for each other! Ha! ha! One got hold of the other one by the hair, threw her down on the floor of the passage, and sat on her! Ha! ha! ha! They scratched and tore each others’ faces. It was enough to make one die with laughter! Why is it women can’t fight fair? Why do they always scratch one another, eh?”

  He sat on the bench, healthy, fresh and jolly; he sat there and went on laughing. We were silent. This time he made an unpleasant impression on us.

  “Well, it’s a funny thing what luck I have with the women-folk! Eh? I’ve laughed till I’m ill! One wink, and it’s all over with them! It’s the d-devil!”

  He raised his white hairy hands, and slapped them down on his knees. And his eyes seemed to reflect such frank astonishment, as if he were himself quite surprised at his good luck with women. His fat, red face glistened with delight and self satisfaction, and he licked his lips more than ever.

  Our baker scraped the shovel violently and angrily along the oven floor, and all at once he said sarcastically:

  “There’s no great strength needed to pull up fir saplings, but try a real pine-tree.”

  “Why—what do you mean by saying that to me?” asked the soldier.

  “Oh, well….”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing—it slipped out!”

  “No, wait a minute! What’s the point? What pinetree?”

  Our baker did not answer, working rapidly away with the shovel at the oven; flinging into it the half-cooked kringels, taking out those that were done, and noisily throwing them on the floor to the boys who were stringing them on bast wrappings. He seemed to have forgotten the soldier and his conversation with him. But the soldier had all at once dropped into a sort of uneasiness. He got up on to his feet, and went to the oven, at the risk of knocking against the handle of the shovel, which was waving spasmodically in the air.

  “No, tell me, do—who is it? You’ve insulted me. I? There’s not one could withstand me, n-no! And you say such insulting things to me?”

  He really seemed genuinely hurt. He must have had nothing else to pride himself on except his gift for seducing women; maybe, except for that, there was nothing living in him, and it was only that by which he could feel himself a living man.

  There are men to whom the most precious and best thing in their lives appears to be some disease of their soul or body. They spend their whole life in relation to it, and only living by it, suffering from it, they sustain themselves on it, they complain of it to others, and so draw the attention of their fellows to themselves.

  For that they extract sympathy from people, and apart from it they have nothing at all. Take from them that disease, cure them, and they will be miserable, because they have lost their one resource in life—they are left empty then. Sometimes a man’s life is so poor, that he is driven instinctively to prize his vice and to live by it; one may say for a fact that often men are vicious from boredom.

  The soldier was offended, he went up to our baker and roared:

  “No, tell me do-who?”

  “Tell you?” the baker turned suddenly to him.

  “Well?”

  “You know Tanya?”

  “Well?”

  “Well, there then! Only try.”

  “You!”

  “Her? Why that’s nothing to me-pooh!”

  “We shall see!”

  “You will see! Ha! ha!”

  “She’ll—–”

  “Give me a month!”

  “What a braggart you are, soldier!”

  “A fortnight! I’ll prove it! Who is it? Tanya! Pooh!”

  “Well, get out. You’re in my way!”

  “A fortnight—and it’s done! Ah, you—–”

  “Get out, I say!”

  Our baker, all at once, flew into a rage and brandished his shovel. The soldier staggered away from him in amazement, looked at us, paused, and softly, malignantly said, “Oh, all right, then!” and went away.

  During the dispute we had all sat silent, absorbed in it. But when the soldier had gone, eager, loud talk and noise arose among us.

  Some one shouted to the baker: “It’s a bad job that you’ve started, Pavel!”

  “Do your work!” answered the baker savagely.

  We felt that the soldier had been deeply aggrieved, and that danger threatened Tanya. We felt this, and at the same time we were all possessed by a burning curiosity, most agreeable to us. What would happen? Would Tanya hold out against the soldier? And almost all cried confidently: “Tanya? She’ll hold out! You won’t catch her with your bare arms!”

  We longed terribly to test the strength of our idol; we forcibly proved to each other that our divinity was a strong divinity and would come victorious out of this ordeal. We began at last to fancy that we had not worked enough on the soldier, that he would forget the dispute, and that we ought to pique his vanity more keenly. From that day we began to live a different life, a life of nervous tension, such as we had never known before. We spent whole days in arguing together; we all grew, as it were, sharper; and got to talk more and better. It seemed to us that we were playing some sort of game with the devil, and the stake on our side was Tanya. And when we learned from the bakers that the soldier had begun “running after our Tanya,” we felt a sort of delighted terror, and life was so interesting that we did not even notice that our employer had taken advantage of our pre-occupation to increase our work by fourteen pounds of dough a day.

  We seemed, indeed, not even tired by our work. Tanya’s name was on our lips all day long. And every day we looked for her with a certain special impatience. Sometimes we pictured to ourselves that she would come to us, and it would not be the same Tanya as of old, but somehow different. We said nothing to her, however, of the dispute regarding her. We asked her no questions, and behaved as well and affectionately to her as ever. But even in this a new element crept in, alien to our old feeling for Tanya—and that new element was keen curiosity, keen and cold as a ste
el knife.

  “Mates! To-day the time’s up!” our baker said to us one morning, as he set to work.

  We were well aware of it without his reminder; but still we were thrilled.

  “Look at her. She’ll he here directly,” suggested the baker.

  One of us cried out in a troubled voice, “Why! as though one could notice anything!”

  And again an eager, noisy discussion sprang up among us. To-day we were about to prove how pure and spotless was the vessel into which we had poured all that was best in us. This morning, for the first time, it became clear to us, that we really were playing a great game; that we might, indeed, through the exaction of this proof of purity, lose our divinity altogether.

  During the whole of the intervening fortnight we had heard that Tanya was persistently followed by the soldier, but not one of us had thought of asking her how she had behaved toward him. And she came every morning to fetch her kringels, and was the same toward us as ever.

  This morning, too, we heard her voice outside: “You poor prisoners! Here I am!”

  We opened the door, and when she came in we all remained, contrary to our usual custom, silent. Our eyes fixed on her, we did not know how to speak to her, what to ask her. And there we stood in front of her, a gloomy, silent crowd. She seemed to be surprised at this unusual reception; and suddenly we saw her turn white and become uneasy, then she asked, in a choking voice:

  “Why are you—like this?”

  “And you?” the baker flung at her grimly, never taking his eyes off her.

  “What am I?”

  “N—nothing.”

  “Well, then, give me quickly the little kringels.”

  Never before had she bidden us hurry.

  “There’s plenty of time,” said the baker, not stirring, and not removing his eyes from her face.

  Then, suddenly, she turned round and disappeared through the door.

  The baker took his shovel and said, calmly turning away toward the oven:

  “Well, that settles it! But a soldier! a common beast like that—a low cur!”

  Like a flock of sheep we all pressed round the table, sat down silently, and began listlessly to work. Soon, however, one of us remarked:

  “Perhaps, after all—”

  “Shut up!” shouted the baker.

  We were all convinced that he was a man of judgment, a man who knew more than we did about things. And at the sound of his voice we were convinced of the soldier’s victory, and our spirits became sad and downcast.

  At twelve o’clock—while we were eating our dinners—the soldier came in. He was as clean and as smart as ever, and looked at us—as usual—straight in the eyes. But we were all awkward in looking at him.

  “Now then, honored sirs, would you like me to show you a soldier’s quality?” he said, chuckling proudly.

  “Go out into the passage, and look through the crack—do you understand?”

  We went into the passage, and stood all pushing against one another, squeezed up to the cracks of the wooden partition of the passage that looked into the yard. We had not to wait long. Very soon Tanya, with hurried footsteps and a careworn face, walked across the yard, jumping over the puddles of melting snow and mud: she disappeared into the store cellar. Then whistling, and not hurrying himself, the soldier followed in the same direction. His hands were thrust in his pockets; his mustaches were quivering.

  Rain was falling, and we saw how its drops fell into the puddles, and the puddles were wrinkled by them. The day was damp and gray—a very dreary day. Snow still lay on the roofs, but on the ground dark patches of mud had begun to appear.

  And the snow on the roofs too was covered by a layer of brownish dirt. The rain fell slowly with a depressing sound. It was cold and disagreeable for us waiting.

  The first to come out of the store cellar was the soldier; he walked slowly across the yard, his mustaches twitching, his hands in his pockets—the same as always.

  Then—Tanya, too, came out. Her eyes—her eyes were radiant with joy and happiness, and her lips—were smiling. And she walked as though in a dream, staggering, with unsteady steps.

  We could not bear this quietly. All of us at once rushed to the door, dashed out into the yard and—hissed at her, reviled her viciously, loudly, wildly.

  She started at seeing us, and stood as though rooted in the mud under her feet. We formed a ring round her! and malignantly, without restraint, abused her with vile words, said shameful things to her.

  We did this not loudly, not hurriedly, seeing that she could not get away, that she was hemmed in by us, and we could deride her to our hearts’ content. I don’t know why, but we did not beat her. She stood in the midst of us, and turned her head this way and that, as she heard our insults. And we—more and more violently flung at her the filth and venom of our words.

  The color had left her face. Her blue eyes, so happy a moment before, opened wide, her bosom heaved, and her lips quivered.

  We in a ring round her avenged ourselves on her as though she had robbed us. She belonged to us, we had lavished on her our best, and though that best was a beggar’s crumb, still we were twenty-six, she was one, and so there was no pain we could give her equal to her guilt!

  How we insulted her! She was still mute, still gazed at us with wild eyes, and a shiver ran all over her.

  We laughed, roared, yelled. Other people ran up from somewhere and joined us. One of us pulled Tanya by the sleeve of her blouse.

  Suddenly her eyes flashed; deliberately she raised her hands to her head and straightening her hair she said loudly but calmly, straight in our faces:

  “Ah, you miserable prisoners!”

  And she walked straight at us, walked as directly as though we had not been before her, as though we were not blocking her way.

  And hence it was that no one did actually prevent her passing.

  Walking out of our ring, without turning round, she said loudly and with indescribable contempt:

  “Ah, you scum—brutes.”

  And—was gone.

  We were left in the middle of the yard, in the rain, under the gray sky without the sun.

  Then we went mutely away to our damp stone cellar. As before—the sun never peeped in at our windows, and Tanya came no more!

  CHILD’S PLAY

  (Takekurabe, 1895–96)

  Ichiyō Higuchi

  Translated from the Japanese by Robert Lyons Danly

  Ichiyō Higuchi (1872–1896) was the pen name of Japanese author Natsu Higuchi. Specializing in short stories, she was one of the first important writers to appear in the Meiji period (1868–1912) and Japan’s first prominent woman writer of modern times. She wrote relatively little as a result of living a brief life – she died at the age of twenty-four – but her stories had a large impact on Japanese literature and she is still appreciated by the Japanese public today. Higuchi’s likeness adorns the Japanese 5000-yen banknote as of fall 2004, becoming the third woman to appear on a Japanese banknote, after Empress Jingū in 1881 and Murasaki Shikibu in 2000. Her work is highly regarded for her use of Classical Japanese language, and for that reason people are reluctant to update or translate it into contemporary Japanese, leaving it difficult for the majority of Japanese people to read.

  It’s a long way round to the front of the quarter, where the trailing branches of the willow tree bid farewell to the nighttime revellers and the bawdyhouse lights flicker in the moat, dark as the dye that blackens the smiles of the Yoshiwara beauties. From the third-floor rooms of the lofty houses the all but palpable music and laughter spill down into the side street. Who knows how these great establishments prosper? The rickshaws pull up night and day.

  They call this part of town beyond the quarter “in front of Daion Temple.” The name may sound a little saintly, but those who live in the area will tell you it’s a lively place. Turn the corner at Mishima Shrine and you don’t find any mansions, just tenements of ten or twenty houses, where eaves have long begun to sag an
d shutters only close halfway. It is not a spot for trade to flourish.

  Outside the tumble-down houses everyone works madly: cutting up paper into queer little pieces, slopping them with paint, spearing them on funny-looking spits. Whole families, the whole neighborhood is wrapped up in the production of these strange, bright paper skewers. They dry the painted scraps in the morning and assemble them at night. And what are these things that have everyone so preoccupied? “You don’t know?” a merchant will reply in astonishment. “Kumade charms! On Otori day, you ought to see the big-wishers buy them up!”

  Year in, year out, the minute the New Year pine bough comes down from the front gate, every self-respecting businessman takes up the same sideline, and by summer hands and feet are splattered with paint. They count on the earnings to buy new clothes for the holidays. If the gods grant prosperity to mere purchasers of these charms, the men who make them figure they stand to reap a windfall. Funny thing, no one hears of any rich men dwelling in these parts.

  Most of the people here, in fact, have some connection with the quarter. The menfolk do odd jobs at the less dignified houses. You can hear them in the evenings jiggling their shoe-check tags before they leave for work, and you’ll see them putting on their jackets when most men take them off. Wives rub good-luck flints behind them to protect their men from harm. Could this be the final parting? It’s a dangerous business. Innocent bystanders get killed when there’s a brawl in one of the houses. And look out if you ever foil the double suicide of a courtesan and her lover! Yet off the husbands go to risk their lives each night like schoolboys to a picnic.

  Daughters, too, are involved in the quarter: here, a serving girl in one of the great establishments; there, an escort plying back and forth between the teahouse and the brothel. They bustle along with their shop’s lantern, an advertisement for all to see. But what will become of these girls once they have graduated from their present course of training? To them, the work is something grand and gala, as if they were performing on a fine wooden stage. Then one day before they know it they have reached the age of thirty, trim and tidy in their cotton coats with matching dresses and their sensible dark blue stockings. They carry their little packages under their arms, and we know what these are without asking. Stomp, stomp, they go with the heels of their sandals—they’re in an awful hurry—and the flimsy drawbridges flop down across the ditch. “We’ll leave it here at the back,” they say, setting down their bundles, “it’s too far round to the front.” So they are needlewomen now, apparently.