Temple Of Dawn

by Yukio Mishima

  “Welcome back, Mr. Honda. I’m relieved to see you looking so well. The trip to India must have been very hard on you.”

  This seemed to be a very impolite greeting to the branch manager, so Honda ignored the comment and thanked the manager.

  “I was amazed at the thoroughness of your arrangements for me every place during the trip. Thanks to you, I traveled like a king.”

  “Now you know well enough that Itsui’s not going to be stopped by anything like Britain and America freezing our credits.”

  In the car on the way to the Oriental Hotel, Hishikawa was quiet, holding the briefcase in the seat next to the driver, while the manager talked about the worsening public feeling in Bangkok during Honda’s absence. He advised Honda to be careful, for the populace, taken in by English and American propaganda, had grown extremely antagonistic toward the Japanese. Honda saw from the car window crowds of poor he had not habitually seen before swarming in the streets.

  “With the rumors of impending invasion by the Japanese Army and the deterioration of local order, a staggering number of refugees have come into Bangkok from the French Indochina border.”

  But the English-style businesslike curtness of the hotel management had not changed in the slightest. After getting himself settled in his room and taking a cold bath, Honda felt better.

  The manager’s party was waiting in the lobby facing the garden to join Honda for dinner, sitting under the large, slowly rotating fan against which beetles sometimes collided noisily.

  On the way down from his room, Honda reflectively observed the arrogant behavior of some so-called Japanese gentlemen in Southeast Asia, a group to which he too belonged, he reminded himself. They were quite devoid of any redeeming feature.

  Why? he wondered. It would be more appropriate to say that in that instant Honda really recognized for the first time their ugliness . . . and his own. It was hard to believe that they were the same Japanese as those beautiful youths, Kiyoaki and Isao.

  With their excellent English linen suits, white shirts, and neckties, their attire was above reproach. And yet each was fanning himself with inelegant haste, the Japanese cord with its single black bead attached to the fan hanging from their hands. Their gold teeth flashed when they smiled and they all wore glasses. The head man was talking with false modesty about some episode connected with his work, and his inferiors were listening to the old story they had heard so many times, nodding and repeating their perpetual comments: “That’s what I call real courage . . . real pluck.” They gossiped about vagrant women, the possibility of war, and then, in whispers, about the high-handedness of the military. Everything had the tone of the listless, repetitive sutra chanting of the tropics, and yet was curiously imbued with simulated vivacity. Despite the listlessness they constantly experienced within, despite an itching or the trickling of sweat, they held themselves stiffly erect, occasionally recalling in some corner of their consciousness the pleasures of the night before with its concomitant fear of some disease with sores like red swamp lilies. Perhaps it had been because of his fatigue from the trip, but Honda had not recognized himself as being one of them when, minutes before, he had looked into the mirror in his room. He had seen only the reflection of a forty-six-year-old man, who had once been engaged in matters of righteousness, who had then made a living on the back streets of justice, the face of a man who had lived too long.

  “My ugliness is special,” he thought, clinging to the confidence which he quickly retrieved, as he descended the red-carpeted steps between the elevator and the lobby. “At any rate, I’m a recidivist of justice; I’m not like those tradesmen.”

  That night, after a few cups of wine had been downed at a Cantonese restaurant, in front of Hishikawa, the manager said in a loud voice to Honda: “Hishikawa here is terribly worried about having caused you so much trouble and hurt your feelings. He seems overly sensitive about it, and after you left he told me every day how wrong he had been, how he had been at fault. He’s almost neurotic about it. I know he has his weaknesses, but I assigned him to you because he’s very useful. I feel responsible for causing you any unpleasantness. You will be leaving in only four or five days—we’ve booked a seat in an Army plane—and Hishikawa has done a lot of soul-searching. He says he will do his best to please. I’m going to ask you, Mr. Honda, to be generous enough to forgive him and accept his services for the rest of your stay.”

  Hishikawa immediately spoke up from the other side of the table, as though beseeching Honda: “Sir, please take me to task as much as you will. I was wrong.” He bowed his head almost to the table.

  The situation was extremely depressing for Honda.

  The manager’s words could be interpreted that he still believed he had chosen a good guide for Honda; but that, judging from Hishikawa’s attitude, Honda must have been extremely hard to please, that if he changed guides, Hishikawa would lose face. Therefore, there was nothing to do but to let Hishikawa swallow the humiliation and continue to work for the rest of the time until his departure. To achieve this, it was best to pretend that everything had been Hishikawa’s fault. Thus, Honda would not be disgraced.

  Honda felt a momentary surge of anger, but in the next instant he realized that it would not be to his advantage to reject the manager’s suggestion. Hishikawa could not himself have confessed actual instances of his being at fault. Furthermore, Hishikawa was congenitally incapable of realizing why he was disliked. However, he must have sensed that he was and, having thought it over in his own limited way, must have decided to do something to ease his lot. He must have got the manager on his side for him to say such insensitive things.

  Honda could forgive the obese manager’s lack of sensitivity, but he could not pardon Hishikawa’s impudent, hypersensitive play-acting which he had quickly thought up on sensing Honda’s antipathy.

  Suddenly he wanted to go back home the very next day. But a change of schedule at this point would obviously be interpreted as a childish plan for revenge because of his dislike for Hishikawa, and he realized he had no other choice. By showing generosity in the beginning, he was forced to be even more generous now.

  Well, the only thing he could do was to treat Hishikawa like a machine. He protested smilingly that the manager’s apology was quite unnecessary and that for the next few days he would have to depend totally on Hishikawa to help him purchase gifts, go book-hunting, and make arrangements for visiting the Rosette Palace to say goodbye. At least he felt satisfaction with his excellent deception in skill-fully concealing his true emotions from the manager.

  Hishikawa’s attitude did change.

  First he took Honda to a bookstore where, as at a poorly stocked vegetable vendor’s, crudely printed paperbacks in English or Thai were sparsely arranged on a display board. Before, Hishikawa would have contemptuously discussed the level of Thai culture, but he let Honda make his choice without a word.

  He could not find any books on Thai Theravada Buddhism, much less any in English concerning samsara and reincarnation. But he was attracted by a thin pamphlet of poetry, apparently a private publication printed on poor-quality paper, its white cover browned by the sun and its corners curled by handling. He read the English preface and realized that it was a collection of poems written shortly after the bloodless revolution of June, 1932, by a young man who seemed to have participated in it. The poet expressed the disillusionment that followed the revolution for which he had been so ready to give his life. By coincidence the collection was published the year after Isao’s death. As Honda turned the pages, he saw in the faded print that the poet’s English was immature.

  Who would have known?

  From the sacrifice of youth dedicated to the future

  Only the vermin of corruption come forth.

  Who would have known?

  In debris-strewn fields that once promised rebirth

  Only plants of venom and thorn are burgeoning.

  The vermin will soon stretch their golden wings,

  And the
wind passing over the grasses will spread pestilence.

  In my heart the love I bear my land

  Is redder than mimosa flowers in the rain;

  Suddenly after the storm, on eaves, pillars, balustrades

  The white mildew of despotism reaches out.

  Yesterday’s wisdom is beclouded in luxurious baths of profit,

  And yesterday’s activist is ensconced in a palanquin of embroidered brocade.

  There would be nothing better

  In the regions of Kabin and Patani,

  Where the flowering pear and rosewood and the manifan’s luxuriant foliage,

  The creeping ivy and the thorny rose and the pinks mark the byways;

  Where the sun and the rain fall upon deep jungles;

  Where rhinoceros, tapirs, and buffalos dwell;

  If, at times, a herd of elephants in quest of water

  Would trample my bones underfoot.

  There would be nothing better than

  To rip with my own hands the red crescent of my throat

  Shining in the dewy underbrush.

  Who would know?

  Who would know?

  I sing my song of sorrow.

  Honda was deeply moved by this political poem of despair and thought that he could find nothing better with which to comfort Isao’s spirit. Was it not true? Isao had died without bringing about the revolution he had dreamed of for so long, but there was no doubt that he would have experienced even greater disillusionment if one had taken place. Death in success, death in failure—death was the basis of Isao’s acts. But the unfortunate human lot is that one cannot take oneself out of time and dispassionately compare two deaths at two different points for the purpose of choosing one or the other. One cannot choose by giving equal priority to a death after experiencing disillusionment in the aftermath of revolution and to one before experiencing it. If one died before experiencing disillusionment, dying afterward would be impossible; and conversely, if one died after experiencing disillusionment, dying before would be out of the question. Therefore, all that one could do was to project oneself into the two deaths in the future and select the one one’s intuition commanded. Isao had chosen death before disillusionment could set in. His prophetic choice showed the unclouded youthful wisdom of one who had never wielded the slightest political power.

  But the feeling of disillusion and despair—as if one had seen the other side of the moon—which overtakes the successful revolutionary makes death merely an escape from a wilderness worse than death itself. Therefore, however sincere the poet’s death was, it must surely be regarded as a pathological suicide that took place in the weary afternoon of revolution.

  For this reason Honda wanted to dedicate this political poem to Isao. At least Isao had died dreaming of the sun, but the morning in this poem had opened a festering wound under a cracked orb. However, an endless thread stretched between Isao’s brave death and the despair of this political poem, both by chance occurring during the same period. The very best, the very worst, the most beautiful and the most ugly illusions about the future for which people sacrificed their lives were probably to be found in the same place and, what was even more frightening, were probably the same thing. What Isao had dreamed of and had been willing to give his life for had to be the despair expressed in this poem, for the shrewder his foresight, the purer his death.

  Honda knew full well that he tended to see things in this way because India had cast its spell on him. India imposed on his thinking a many-layered structure, like lotus petals, and no longer let him think in a direct and simple way. The time he willingly put aside his judgeship in order to help Isao—although he was strongly motivated by remorse for not having been able to help Kiyoaki—was probably the first and last occasion in his life that he had been so altruistic and dedicated. Yet despite his efforts, he had not been able to prevent Isao’s futile death, and after that nothing remained but for him to reverse his ideas on reincarnation and see his future outside samsara. And it was India, terrifying India, that had dropped the final hint to Honda, who found it increasingly difficult to entertain “human” emotions.

  Whether in success or in failure, sooner or later time must lead to disillusionment; and if foresight of this disillusionment remains only that, it is mere pessimism. The important thing is to act on this foresight even by dying. Isao had achieved that magnificently. Only by action can one see through the glass walls erected at various points in time—glass walls insurmountable by human effort, but which can be seen through equally from both sides. In eager desire, in aspiration, in dreams, in ideals, the past and future become equal in value and in quality: they are coordinate.

  Whether or not Isao had glimpsed such a world at the moment of his death was a question Honda could not put off now that he was growing older, if he would discover what he should have to face at the moment of his own death. At least it was certain that at that instant the existing Isao and the Isao to be had looked directly into each other’s eyes. By his foresight the existing Isao had grasped the splendor of the unseen on the other side and his eyes there saw through to this side with craving. It was certain that the existing Isao had foreseen the glory of the future Isao, and the eyes of the Isao to come had looked back yearningly at the innocent being that had not yet experienced this glory. By passing through two unrelivable existences the two Isaos were connected through the glass wall. Isao and the political poet suggested the eternal link between the poet who, having passed through life, yearned for death, and the youth who, rejecting the passing, died. If that were true, what had become of that which they had so ardently desired, each in his own way. Honda’s theory, unchanged since his youth, was that history could not be advanced by human volition, but that the intrinsic nature of human will was to become involved in history.

  How, he wondered, could he dedicate these poems, a most suitable gift, to Isao’s soul?

  Would it be best to take the book back to Japan and offer it at his grave? No, Honda knew all too well that Isao’s tomb was empty.

  Surely the best way would be to dedicate it to the little Princess who openly claimed herself to be Isao’s reincarnation. She would be the fastest and most dependable messenger. Honda now became the fleet-footed courier easily passing through the wall of time.

  But no matter how intelligent, could a girl of six understand the despair of such poems? Besides, as Isao’s reincarnation had taken such an obvious form this time, Honda had experienced a twinge of suspicion. And then, he had not been able to see the three little moles on the Princess’s lovely, dusky body even in the bright sunlight.

  Having decided to take as gifts an Indian sari of excellent quality and the book of poems, Honda asked Hishikawa to contact the Rosette Palace. He was informed that the Princess would grant an audience in the Hall of Queens at the Chakri Palace, which she would have opened especially for him, as it had been closed for some time because of the King’s absence.

  However, one strict condition was imposed by the ladies-in-waiting. During his trip to India, the Princess had been anxiously waiting for Honda’s return to Thailand, insisting that she was going to accompany him to Japan when he returned. She had complained that her attendants had done nothing in preparation for the trip, and they had soothed her by pretending to make arrangements. Therefore, they desired that at the time of the audience Honda make no mention of his departure, much less of the date, and that he pretend that he was staying on in Thailand.

  11

  THE NEXT DAY, the one on which Honda was to leave for Japan, was beautifully clear, but the wind had fallen and it was extremely hot.

  Honda and Hishikawa passed by the royal guard house about nine forty for their ten o’clock audience, suffering in necktie and jacket.

  The palace, designed by an Italian architect, had been built in 1882 under King Chulalongkorn and was in style a magnificent mixture of neo-Baroque and Siamese.

  It featured an amazingly complex, almost hallucinating facade set against the
blue tropical sky. No matter how European the style, the brilliant and overly ornate front possessed the dazzling and intoxicating quality characteristic of tropical Asian architecture. The marble staircases which ascended gracefully to the left and right were guarded at their base by bronze elephants. The main entrance was in the style of the Pantheon in Rome, and the imposing pediment above the arches contained a colorful portrait of King Chulalongkorn. Up to this point, it was purely European neo-Baroque with marble and bas-reliefs and gold. But as one’s gaze mounted to the story above, one saw a pavilion in the Siamese style standing in the center of a gallery of pink marble Corinthian pillars. The ceiling was checkered, alternately maroon and gold on a white base, and the whole structure jutted out impressively like a ship’s turret. It bore the candelabrumlike coat of arms of the Chakri dynasty. The upper stories to the very peak of the golden spire rose in pyramids of intricate, authentic Siamese intercalary roofs in red and gold, the ornate end-tiles of the ridges pointing to the blue sky like the raised shoulders of dancers. It seemed as if the whole point of the Chakri Palace was to have the solid, rationally cold European base crushed by the royal dreams of the tropics—superfluously complex, unnecessarily colorful . . . maddening. It was as though a beaked nightmare with sharp talons and bristling gold and red wings were bent over the torso of a recumbent king, dignified, cold, white.

  “Is this supposed to be beautiful?” said Hishikawa, stopping and wiping the perspiration from his upturned face.

  “Whether it’s beautiful or not, what’s that to us? We’ve been invited only to see the Princess.”

  Honda’s unexpected curtness instantly intimidated Hishikawa, who looked at him with fear in his eyes; nothing further was said. Honda regretted that he had not used this effective method at the very beginning of his visit to Bangkok.

  The officer of the guards who served as guide intimated that it had been considerable trouble for them to open the long-closed palace just to humor the whimsical Princess. Honda, at a wink from Hishikawa, quickly slipped a suitable amount of money into the officer’s pocket.