Modern Japanese Literature

by Donald Keene

  “It was as though I could see before my eyes—fearsome thing—the figure lying naked, the kimono open, here in this Yotsuya Valley.

  “The demon, said the blind man, was after the woman, to lick her shadow, to suck at it, to take it, to trample it, to devour it. ‘Tell her, if you please, that she is to be careful.’ But I was not listening. I flew off in a dark cloud. I was not to be stopped by iron gate or stone door, and I went to meet that small, defenseless woman.

  “I had seen a demon that would take her shadow, would suck at her shadow, would lick at her shadow. I had seen it in the light of the gas lamp.

  “The woman’s house was very near here.

  “‘It will be after you day and night. You are not looking well, your shadow is thin already. Watch for it.’ That, sir, is what I said.

  “An unhappy woman, whom labor and anguish had already so devastated that her obi, however tightly bound, could not be tight enough—into the head of this unhappy woman I drove my words as with a hammer.

  “In my anger that she had shown herself naked to another. She fell upon my knee, and in a voice that trembled asked whom I had met and what I had heard along the way. Look to your own conscience—I said; and I did not tell her I had heard the story from a blind man.

  “A tragic mistake. It was the blind man himself who clung to the woman like her very shadow. It was the blind man himself who might have been taken for a lizard in the gaslight, who hovered about the back fence, the well, the hedge, face livid, eyes red, lips pale and tight, waiting for the woman to come in or go out.

  “Had she known it was the blind man, she would not have been so haunted by the story.”

  7

  “Thereafter I saw the woman less often.

  “She seemed to avoid me.

  “I thought of killing her and myself; but presently, as I heard the details, I learned that she was avoiding everyone. She had a strange longing to be hidden.

  “And finally, like the splittailed cat who has taken the shape of a beautiful woman, she came to hate the light of the sun. Whether it was night or day, she closed the doors and the shutters, and lay hidden behind two and three screens.

  “I forced my way through, and saw her. Her very kimono seemed moldering and musty, and she only knelt looking at the floor, so slight and wraithlike that it seemed she must quite disappear.

  “I raised her face. The eyes were destroyed. I beg your pardon? No, the woman’s eyes, both the woman’s eyes.

  “I heard her story. She had not been able even for an instant to take her eyes from her shadow.

  “If she went into the kitchen it was on the window, if she went to the veranda it was on the doorstep or behind her on the door, the wall, the screen.

  “And wherever the shadow was, there was the demon, to suck at it, to lick, trample, rub, embrace, cover.

  “In the light of the moon, the light of the sun, the light of the lamp, the faint light of the snow or of trees in blossom, there was always that shadow. And with the shadow: discomfort, revulsion—terror and loathing.

  “Finally, darkness. But even when she could not see the palm of her own hand, there was the shadow. When all the lights were out.

  “In the alcove, on the lintel, on the ceiling, on the doorframe, the floor, now here and now there—the shape of a lizard with something slapped down on its head, weirdly white, the body long, the legs writhing—now clinging, now curling into a ball, now crawling along stretched out its full length.

  “She would scream when she saw it, and it would flit away—how quickly! But a moment later it would come creeping back again.

  “She tried desperately not to see. But she saw because she had eyes. Lying back on her pillow, her hair pulled tightly back, she dropped medicine into her eyes, and was blind.

  “Darkness, over the heart too. I took her hand, and for the first time told her that I had heard the story of the demon who eats shadows from a certain blind man halfway up the hill. I told her how old he seemed to be, and described his appearance, and the woman gasped as though her eyes had suddenly been opened, and began weeping bitterly.

  “Frustrated in love, the blind man had put his curse on her.

  “I clutched at the flesh of my face and wept tears of anger, chagrin, exation—and finally of pity. I determined that I would be with her, nd with this hand I drove a needle into both my eyes.

  “A bond from one life lasts through three. Enlightenment has ome to us, and penitence, and release from the appetites of the world. We take our staffs, that blind man with us, and, ashamed of the daylight, go out into the night.

  “We have met you along the way.

  “I have troubled you; but as our sleeves brushed in the mist, I knew, and I spoke to you. It is for you to take my advice or throw it away.

  “I have nothing more to say. If you will, I shall leave you.”

  Forlorn and graceful, the woman rose to her feet. Her weeping had sounded below the narrative.

  Led by Long Head, the three of them groped their way down the hill. Three staffs, three phantoms in the fading gaslight.

  The bit of silk pressed to the eyes by that white hand as the woman had arisen seemed to linger on, a scarlet butterfly cutting its way in and out of the mist.

  TRANSLATED BY EDWARD SEIDENSTICKER

  SANCTUARY

  [from Gin no Saji, 1911-1912] by Naka Kansuke (born 1885)

  Naka Kansuke has spent his life outside the main stream of literary activity in Japan, and has never attained fame commensurate with his genius as a writer. His first novel, The Silver Spoon (of which the concluding section is given here), is an extraordinarily beautiful evocation of the world of childhood, which retains its freshness today.

  •

  The year I was sixteen I spent my vacation alone at a friend’s summer house. Its heavily thatched roof was nestled in the foothills along the shore of a beautiful, lonely peninsula which I had once visited with my brother. An old woman who sold flowers came in to take care of the house. She was from the same province as my dead aunt, and somehow—if only in age and in the way she talked—reminded me of her. Since I knew the dialect too, and had heard a great deal about that part of the country, we were soon on very good terms. . . .

  One afternoon as I was climbing toward a huge pine at the top of a mountain behind the house I lost my bearings and went off into a wild ravine. Elbowing blindly through the tall underbrush, lashed by dense branches and tripped by what looked like fan-vines, I clambered out of its choking depths up to a ridge. The ridge was shaped like an ox, its head thrust down the middle of a deep valley that opened out to the sea. I picked my way along its back toward the plump, bulging shoulders. Dried-up little pines were clinging desperately to places where reddish granite powder had hardened into a sharkskin-like crust; here and there lay the droppings of birds that had come to eat the pine cones. Clutching the coarse rock to keep from sliding down into the valley, I crawled up the hump that made the ox’s shoulders. The sun leapt brilliantly into a sky full of dazzling light. Then I went along the gently sloping neck for about a hundred yards, as both sides of the ridge fell away more and more sharply and the valley became deeper and deeper, until at last, across a small level space that was the muzzle, I came to the edge of a sheer cliff.

  I was on one of the many spurs reaching to the sea from the chain of rugged mountains, as high as two thousand feet, that extended seven or eight miles along this coast. Here, though, the middle one of three such spurs had been eroded at the base, so that it looked like a wedge driven between the other two. Screened in by the peak behind it and by the still higher rock cliffs on either side of the valley, under a vault of blue sky, it made a strange sanctuary. Now and then the hawks screeching shrilly overhead would swoop down, skim past my eyes, and soar into the sky again. Below, in the valley to my right, a road threaded the thick black forest, between the mountains, down toward the village on the other side. Through a narrow pass I could see mountain after mountain, red, pink, purple, fa
intly purple, with rows of clouds along them, going on in endless folds and layers. Full of joy and admiration, mingled with a kind of terror, I began to sing. An echo! My song was repeated as clearly as if someone hiding behind the mountain had mimicked it. Enticed by the unseen singer, I strained my voice to its highest pitch. The other voice, too, sang at that pitch. I spent the rest of the day singing there happily, with a primitive delight in that sure reply. By the time I reached our hedge gate the summer sun was sinking into the ocean.

  I walked around to the bathroom to wash my feet, and then remembered the bath would be ready. The water was just right, so I got in the tub and soaked, stretching my tired legs luxuriously. Where the hot water circled my chest I felt as if I were lightly enlaced in threads. As I leaned back and held my buoyant body afloat, or breathed on my warm skin, I enjoyed the day’s pleasures over again. I named the place Echo Peak. That I had found it by losing my way, which meant no one else knew about it, and that it could only be reached by scrambling across a dangerous ridge—these things made me all the more happy. Meanwhile I peered down through the shifting surface of the water . . . and noticed, barely visible, a pale oily glint. Had someone already taken a bath? Evidently another guest had come. I became extremely uneasy. To me, strangers were unbearable. Then, as I was feeling disappointed, my pleasure completely spoiled, the old woman hurried in to help me wash. She apologized for not having changed the water, and told me ‘the young mistress from Tokyo’ had arrived. It didn’t sound like anyone in my friend’s family. But I had heard of an elder sister in Kyoto who would be in Tokyo this summer—perhaps she was the one. In that case I would have to put up with it, I decided. Hopeless.

  Lowering her voice dramatically, the old woman added, “Now there’s a handsome young lady for you!” And she went out.

  Later I slipped back to my own room like a fugitive, and sat leaning against the alcove pillar, utterly downcast. Meeting someone for the first time was an ordeal: the strain of being polite to an unfamiliar person bound me with invisible cords, till my forehead narrowed into a frown and my shoulders were burning hot. And now, it seemed, someone was in the guest cottage beyond the garden. The sister had not sounded too unpleasant; even so, I worried about what might be expected of me. Then I heard soft footsteps come down the veranda—to my door.

  I left the pillar and went over to sit at my desk, just as a calm, gentle feminine voice asked, “May I trouble you for a moment?” As if impelled by that voice, the door slid smoothly open. “Oh dear,” I heard, “you haven’t been brought a lamp yet!” A white face was set in clear relief against the rectangle of dim light.

  “How do you do?” She introduced herself as my friend’s elder sister. “I’m afraid I’ll be disturbing you for two or three days.”

  “Oh.” I sat there like a criminal awaiting sentence.

  “Do you suppose you’ll like these?” Gracefully she offered me a dish of sweet-scented foreign confections . . . and all at once a grave, cool sculpture had become a beautiful woman, smiling shyly. Then, “I’ll bring a lamp.” And there was only the sculpture again, disappearing into the darkness.

  I gave a sigh of relief. Filled with shame at my own wretchedness, I tried to remember how she had looked, but it was like groping for a dream. Yet when I shut my eyes tight, a sharp image drifted up as if I had suddenly gone out into a lighted place. A large round chignon in the style of a married woman. Black, black hair. Vivid black eyes sparkling under clear-cut eyebrows. So distinct was the entire outline that it gave me a curious feeling of coldness; even the somewhat pouting lips, which were painfully beautiful, seemed carved out of icy coral from the ocean depths. But when those lips curved up charmingly, parting to allow a glimpse of lovely teeth, that cool smile softened the whole image, and a tinge of color came into the white cheeks. The carved figure had turned into a beautiful woman.

  After that I found myself trying to avoid her. Of course it was impossible not to meet now and then, though I would go off to Echo Peak in the morning and purposely come back too late for dinner. But when I went to the peak I refused to sing a note ... like a bird out of season. And I stared vacantly at the deep colors of the mountains beyond the pass.

  One evening, rather late, I was standing in the garden watching the moon rise over the mountain. Insects were singing everywhere, a fresh breeze carried the scent and murmur of the ocean across the fields. The round window of the guest cottage was still glowing, and in the lotus basin in front of it I could see the closed flowers, dimly white, and leaves beaded with moisture from a late afternoon shower. Sunk in the deepest and most obscure of all my thoughts, I stood there gazing at the moon, every night diminished a little further ... and as I gazed I became aware that my friend’s sister was standing beside me in the garden. The moon and flowers vanished—as the reflections in a pond vanish when a waterfowl sweeps down and alights on it, and there is only the white shape floating casually. . . .

  In confusion I tried to say something. “The moon ...” But she had discreetly begun to walk away. I flushed. It was my nature to be terribly ashamed of a trifle like that, of a little slip in speech or an awkwardness of any kind.

  She went calmly on around the garden a little way, and then, as she was coming back to me, tactfully finished off my words: “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” I was very grateful.

  The next day I went to the cottage to return a newspaper, and found her combing her hair before a mirror. Her long hair was hanging loose, flowing smoothly down her back in rich waves. As I left, the hand that held the comb paused a moment, and the face in the mirror smiled. “I’ll be going tomorrow,” she said; “so I wondered if we couldn’t have dinner together.”

  Again I went off to climb Echo Peak, and spent half the day, silent, in that sanctuary where only the soaring hawks could see me. The echo was silent too, but I thought of its friendly voice.

  That evening the dinner table was spread with a pure white cloth; the old woman sat at one side, the sister and I facing each other. I felt shy, pleased, lonely, and sad, all at the same time.

  “Won’t you begin?” She bowed her head slightly. “The cook hasn’t much experience, though. . . . I’m not sure you’ll care for this.” Smiling, she glanced over at my plate a little hesitantly. A square of homemade bean curd lay quivering there, so white it looked as if it would take up the indigo pattern of the plate. She grated citron for me, and I sprinkled on the pale-green powder. When I dipped the almost melting cake into its sauce, once, twice, it turned a reddish brown. Slowly I slipped it onto my tongue. There was the delicate savor of the citron, the sharp taste of soy sauce, and a cold, slippery feeling. I rolled it around in my mouth a few times and it was gone, leaving only a faint starchy flavor. Another dish held a neat row of tiny mackerel, their tails cocked up. The side-markings were chestnut-colored, the backs blue, the bellies a glittering silver—and there was the usual delicate aroma of this fish. When I pulled off a morsel of the firm flesh, dipped it in sauce, and ate it, it had a rich taste.

  Later, fruit was served. The sister picked out a large, sweet-looking pear, and began to peel it. Setting the heavy fruit firmly in the circle of her long, arched fingers, she turned it round and round, as a strip of yellow peel curved over her pale hand and down in a loose spiral. Then she said she was not especially fond of pears, and put it, dripping with juice, on a dish for me. While I sliced and ate it, I watched her take a beautiful cherry, hold it lightly between her lips, and then glide it deftly in with the tip of her tongue. Her soft rounded chin moved deliciously.

  She seemed unusually gay. The old woman became very jolly too, and announced she was going to guess how many teeth I had. So she hid her face like a child, pondered a long time, and declared: “Twenty-eight, not counting wisdom-teeth!”

  “Everybody has twenty-eight.”

  But she wouldn’t hear it. “What do you mean! Don’t they say the Lord Buddha had forty odd?” Across the table I saw those lips part in a lovely smile.

  After
that our conversation somehow got around to birds. The old woman told us the mountains in her province were full of snowy herons. Wild geese and ducks came too, and flocks of cranes; a pair of white-naped cranes was sure to come every year, an event that had to be reported to the castle. Storks turned their heads to scream, and wove basket-like nests of twigs in the huge cedars of the local shrine. . . . On and on she went in her excitement, till we asked how long ago all that had been.

  “When I was a child.”

  “Then they’d be gone now.”

  “But there were lots of them!” she insisted. “And they had little ones every year!” Again I saw that lovely smile.

  My friend’s sister was supposed to leave the next morning, but for some reason stayed till evening. When I came out of the bath at dusk, my room was dark and the old woman had gone off somewhere, so I decided to go out to the garden.

  Just then I heard the sister call to me from the round window of the cottage. “I borrowed your lamp for a moment.” And she came to say good-bye, bringing a tray of peaches.

  “I hope you’ll be all right. Do come to see us whenever you’re in Kyoto.”

  I went down and sat in the garden by the flowers, and watched the stars wheeling on endlessly toward the ocean. There was only the sky, the cries of insects, the distant murmur of the waves. . . . The old woman came back with a rickshawman. I saw the sister, beautifully dressed and ready to leave, hurrying to my room to return the lamp. Finally, after her luggage had been taken out, she went down the veranda toward the entrance hall, and made a little bow to me as she passed.

  “Good-bye!” she called. But I pretended not to hear.

  “Good-bye! Good-bye!”

  Silently I bowed my head there in the dark. The creak of the rickshaw died away, and I heard the gate being shut. Hidden among the flowers, I brushed at my streaming tears. Why had I kept silent? Why couldn’t I have said good-bye? I stayed in the garden till I was cold, and at last, when the now slender moon hung over the mountain, went back to my room. Propping both elbows listlessly on the desk, I cupped my hands tenderly around a peach—a peach with a tinge of color, like a cheek, and with the smooth curve of a softly rounded chin—and pressed it to my lips. And as I sniffed the fragrance subtly diffused through its fine-textured skin, my tears began to fall once again.