The Temple of Dawn

by Yukio Mishima

  However, on reflection, Isao’s act of assassination and his suicide seemed like brilliant evening stars, harbingers, in a night filled with glittering constellations, that led the way to the February Twenty-Sixth Incident. To be sure, the assassins had hoped for dawn, but what materialized was night. And now, be the times what they may, that night was almost spent, and an uneasy, stifling morning had settled in, one that none of those activists would have imagined.

  The treaty drawn up by Japan, Germany, and Italy had angered a segment of the nationalists and those who were pro-French and pro-English; but the great majority of those who liked Europe and the West and even the old-fashioned proponents of a pan-Asia were pleased about it. Japan was to be married, not to Hitler, but to the German forests; not to Mussolini, but to the Roman pantheon. It was a pact joining German, Roman, and Japanese mythology: a friendship among the beautiful, masculine, pagan gods of East and West.

  Honda, of course, had never submitted to such romantic prejudice, but he sensed that the times were somehow tremulously ripening and it was clear that some dream was forming. And now that he was here, away from Tokyo, the sudden rest and leisure resulted curiously in fatigue, and he could do nothing to prevent this plunge into reminiscing about things past.

  He had not abandoned his idea, the one he had stressed long, long ago when talking with the nineteen-year-old Kiyoaki: the will to engage oneself in history is the essence of human purpose. Yet the instinctive fear that a nineteen-year-old boy has about his own character turns out, at times, to be extremely prophetic. While proclaiming such a concept, Honda at the time was in reality expressing despair in his own makeup. This despondency increased as he grew older and finally became a chronic ailment. But his personality had never changed in the slightest. He recalled a most terrifying passage from the chapter on the Three Recompenses

  ∗ in the Treatise on the Establishment of Reality, which was among the two or three Buddhist texts recommended by the Abbess of the Gesshu Temple:

  That one takes pleasure in doing evil

  Is because that evil is not ripe.

  Thus, Honda took a listless, tropical pleasure in the gracious reception he had met in Bangkok, in what he heard and saw, and even in what he ate and drank. But that was not really proof that he had been guiltless of evil acts in the nearly fifty years of his life. His evil was surely not yet so ripe as the fragrant fruit ready to fall of itself from the branch.

  In Thai Theravada Buddhism with the artless concept of causality found in the Southern Buddhist Canon, Honda recognized the causality of the Laws of Manu that had impressed him so deeply in his youth. Throughout, Hindu deities show their grotesque faces. The sacred naga-serpent, the mythical garuda, half giant, half eagle with golden body, white face, and red wings, which adorn the eaves of the temples, still recount the stories of the Nagananda, the seventh-century Indian epic, and the filial piety of garuda is acclaimed by the Hindu Vishnu.

  Since coming to this land, Honda’s former intellectual curiosity had been piqued, and he was eager to discover how Theravada Buddhism explained the mystery of transmigration. It was this concept that provided him the opportunity of casting aside half a lifetime of rationality.

  According to scholars, Indian religious philosophy is divided into six periods:

  1. The period of the Rig Veda.

  2. The period of the Brahmanas.

  3. The period of the Upanishads, which extends from the eighth to the fifth centuries B.C., an era of self-conscious philosophy, establishing as its ideal the unity of Brahma, the ultimate ground of all being, and atman, “self.” The idea of a cycle of births and deaths—samsara—appeared clearly for the first time in this period, and when linked to the concept that acts (karma) bring inevitable consequences the law of causality came into being. By coupling that with the idea of atman, a philosophical system emerged.

  4. A period of schism among various schools of thought.

  5. The period of perfection of Theravada Buddhism, occurring between the third and first centuries B.C.

  6. The ensuing five hundred years which saw the rise of Mahayana Buddhism.

  The problem is the fifth period, in which the Laws of Manu were compiled. Honda had been surprised when in his youth he had discovered that the concept of samsara was applied even to law codes. The idea of karma as it appears later in Buddhism was distinctly different from that in the Upanishads: the difference lay in Buddhism’s denial of atman, for such denial is the essence of this religion.

  One of the three characteristics which differentiate Buddhism from other religions is that of the selflessness of all the dharmas. Buddhism advocated selflessness and denied atman, which had been considered to be the main constituent of life. It followed that Buddhism rejected the idea of “soul,” which is the extension of atman into the hereafter. Buddhism does not recognize the soul as such. If there is no core substance called soul in beings, there is, of course, none in inorganic matter. Indeed, quite like a jellyfish devoid of bone, there is no innate essence in all of creation.

  But then the troublesome question arises: if good acts produce a good subsequent existence and evil acts a bad one, and if, indeed, everything returns to nothingness following death, what then is the transmigrating substance? If we assume there is no self, what is the basis of the birth-and-death cycle to start with?

  The three hundred years of Theravada Buddhism constitute a period of dispute and conflict among many schools which resulted in no satisfactory logical conclusion for any given one. All were embarrassed by the contradictions and inconsistencies that existed between the atman, that Buddhism denied, and karma, which it inherited.

  For a credible philosophical answer to this question, mankind had to await the Mahayana school called Yuishiki, or “consciousness only.” But when the Theravada Sautrantika school evolved, the concept of “seed perfuming” was established, according to which the effect of a good or bad deed remains in one’s consciousness, permeating it as the fragrance of perfume permeates clothes, and thus forms character. This power of forming was the origin of the causal theory. The doctrine was the precursor of later Yuishiki ideas.

  And now Honda realized what was behind the constant smile and the melancholy eyes of the two Siamese princes. It was a feeling of heavy, golden listlessness, of lulling breezes beneath the trees—the constant evasion of any organized logical system; oppressed and languid in the sun, the people of this land of sumptuous temples and flowers and fruits faithfully worshipped the Buddha and believed implicitly in reincarnation.

  Prince Kridsada aside, the intelligent Prince Pattanadid had had, surprisingly, the sharp mind of a philosopher. Yet the violence of his emotions swept away any dispassionate intellectualism. Honda still remembered most vividly, more than any words the Prince had spoken, the sight of him fainting that end of summer on the lawn chair at Kiyoaki’s southern villa on hearing the news of Chantrapa’s death. His tanned arm dangled limply from the white armrest. Honda could not see if the Prince’s face, resting against his shoulder, had turned pale, but his brilliant white teeth were visible between slightly parted lips.

  His long, elegant brown fingers, meant for the subtle caresses of love, hung loosely, almost touching the green summer grass, as though all five had momentarily followed in death the deceased object of his desire.

  However, Honda feared that the princes’ recollection of Japan might not be very pleasant, though the passage of time could well have made them miss it even more. Their isolation, their language difficulties, the different customs, Prince Pattanadid’s loss of his emerald ring, and the death of Princess Chantrapa had made their stay in Japan something less than enjoyable. But what had ultimately turned away their understanding was the intimidating Swordsmen’s Team spirit at the Peers School. This had alienated not only the princes but also ordinary students like Honda and Kiyoaki and the liberal and humanistic young men of the White Birch literary society. Unfortunately, the real Japan was not easily found among the friends of the
princes, but was much more present among their enemies; the princes themselves were probably vaguely aware of this. An uncompromising Japan, as proud as a young warrior in scarlet silk, and yet as sensitive as a young boy challenging to battle before he is taunted and charging to his death before accepting insult. Isao was different from Kiyoaki, for he lived in the center of this radical world and believed in the existence of the soul.

  Approaching fifty, Honda now possessed one advantage: he was probably free of prejudice. Of authority too, for he himself had once been authority; and even of reason, since he had once been the personification of cerebration.

  Even the spirit of the Swordsmen’s Team in the second decade of the century was one of youth in uniform; it pervaded the entire era. And Honda too, who had never been a part of it, now that he was older did not hesitate to identify in his memory those youthful days with an aggressive spirit.

  This temper, further distilled and purified, formed Isao’s world, one Honda had not shared with him in his younger days, one he had observed only as an outsider. Noting how Isao’s youthful Japanese mind, struggling in absolute isolation, had destroyed itself, Honda could not but realize that what had permitted him to live the way he had was the strength of Western thought, imported from the outside. Unfertilized thinking brings death.

  If one wished to live, one must not cling to purity, as Isao had done. One must not cut oneself off from all channels of retreat; one must not reject everything.

  Nothing had ever forced Honda to probe the question of an unadulterated Japan more deeply than had Isao’s death. Was there any way to live honestly with Japan other than by rejecting everything, than by rejecting present-day Japan and the Japanese people? Was there no other way of living than this most difficult one, in which ultimately one murdered and then committed suicide? Everyone was afraid to say, but had not Isao given proof by his acts?

  On reflection, in the purest of tribes there was the smell of blood and the taint of savagery. Unlike the Spaniards, who preserved their national sport of bullfighting despite the accusations of animal lovers throughout the world, the Japanese, when the nation had embraced a new culture and ethic at the end of the last century, turned their efforts to eliminating the barbaric customs of preceding generations. As a result, the genuine, unadulterated national spirit was subordinated, its energy erupting from time to time in explosions of violence which repelled and alienated the people even more.

  However, whatever frightening mask it might assume, the national spirit in its original state was of pristine whiteness. Traveling through a country like Thailand, Honda realized more clearly than ever the simplicity and purity of things Japanese, like transparent stream water through which one could glimpse pebbles below, or the probity of Shinto rites. Honda’s life was not imbued with such spirit. Like the majority of Japanese he ignored it, behaving as though it did not exist and surviving by escaping from it. All his life he had dodged things fundamental and artless: white silk, clear cold water, the zigzag white paper of the exorciser’s staff fluttering in the breeze, the sacred precinct marked by a torii, the gods’ dwelling in the sea, the mountains, the vast ocean, the Japanese sword with its glistening blade so pure and sharp. Not only Honda, but the vast majority of Westernized Japanese, could no longer stand such intensely native elements.

  But if Isao, who believed in the soul, had indeed gone to heaven—and this was an example of a good cause producing a good effect—if he had entered the cycle of births and deaths and been reborn as a human, what could the process be?

  Now that he thought about it, Honda wondered if Isao, when he had determined to die, had not indeed secretly held some premonition of another life. There seemed to have been some indication of this. When a man strove to live his life in so pure and extreme a fashion, was he not naturally led to the supposition of another existence?

  Honda recalled the Japanese shrine, and in the heat the very thought made him feel drops of clear cool water on his forehead. To the visitor climbing the stone steps, the torii, that seems merely a well-defined frame for the main shrine building, on his exit seems to change into a frame of clear blue sky. Strange that one frame should contain a lofty shrine from one side and empty blue sky from the other. The form of the torii seemed like that of Isao’s soul.

  For Isao had lived a well-defined life that resembled a torii, lofty, beautiful, simple. And inevitably it was ultimately filled with clear blue sky.

  No matter how far the dying Isao’s mind had drifted from Buddhism, this very paradox seemed to point up to Honda the relationship between the Japanese and Buddhism. It was as though the muddy waters of the Menam were to be filtered through a sieve of white silk.

  Late the same night that he had heard the story of the Princess from Hishikawa, Honda rummaged through his suitcase in the hotel room and brought out Kiyoaki’s Dream Diary wrapped in purple silk.

  The diary had been read and reread and the binding had begun to fall apart; Honda had clumsily but carefully mended it himself. Kiyoaki’s hasty, youthful writing was still vibrant, but the color of the ink had faded during the thirty years since it had been written.

  Yes, just as Honda remembered, Kiyoaki had had a vivid dream of Siam which he had entered in the diary shortly after the Siamese princes had visited his home.

  Kiyoaki was seated in a fine chair in a palace with a ruined garden. He wore “a high, pointed, gold crown inlaid with jewel clusters.” In the dream he was a member of Siamese royalty.

  Many peacocks were perched on the beams, letting fall their white droppings, and Kiyoaki wore Prince Pattanadid’s emerald ring on his finger. “The lovely face of a small girl” was mirrored in the stone. This must have been the face of the little mad Princess he had not yet seen, and the reflection in the emerald with its downcast eyes was presumably Kiyoaki’s own. It seemed beyond question now to Honda that the Princess was indeed the reincarnation of Kiyoaki by way of Isao.

  It was not unexpected that he should have had such a dream after receiving the Siamese princes in his house and listening to the fascinating tales of their country. But after several experiences, Honda was forced to accept the fact that Kiyoaki’s dream was another manifestation of his transmigration.

  It was now self-explanatory. Once he had surmounted the problem of faulty logic, everything fitted together. Isao had never told Honda, nor had Honda ever discovered, whether Isao had had any other omens; Isao too might well have dreamed during his prison nights about the girl in the tropics.

  Hishikawa diligently looked after Honda’s needs during the latter’s stay in Bangkok. And the lawsuit was going well, thanks to Honda’s efforts. He had uncovered an oversight on the part of the buyers.

  According to article 473 of the Thai Civil Code, which was founded on Anglo-American law, sellers need not assume responsibility for flaws in their merchandise in one or more of the following instances:

  1. If the buyer was aware of the flaw at the time of purchase, or could have been had he been ordinarily observant.

  2. If the flaw was evident at the time of the delivery of the merchandise, or if the buyer accepted the merchandise without reservation.

  3. If the merchandise was sold at public auction.

  As Honda investigated further, it became clear to him that the buyers could have been guilty according to either the first or second instance. If he could follow this up and get sufficient proof, they might well drop the charges.

  Needless to say, Itsui Products were grateful, and Honda himself was quite relieved. He felt inclined to ask Hishikawa to get on with arranging an audience with the Princess. But he was such a bore.

  Honda had never had any desire to make friends with artists, and indeed, he had never had a friend who could be called one. Nor had he ever expected to be introduced to an arty dropout in such a remote place as this.

  It was all the more exasperating then that Hishikawa should be so helpful as a guide for the unaccustomed traveler, never the slightest reluctant to do whatever Hond
a asked. Furthermore, he possessed all sorts of back-door entrées in this country where any entrance through the front was strictly impossible. He was indeed a priceless guide, and he himself knew it.

  But Hishikawa had retained the disagreeable affectations of an artist, whatever the work was he had produced in the past. He depended on guiding travelers to earn his living, and yet in his heart he was contemptuous of the Philistines whom he squired about. As this was transparently clear to Honda, he amused himself by being the very image of the Philistine Hishikawa thought him to be. He talked intentionally about his wife and mother in Japan, about his unhappiness in having no children. He enjoyed observing as Hishikawa unsuspectingly acted out the role of being sympathetic.

  In fact, artists who were not only immature, but who made it a practice to flaunt immaturity as a dishonest alibi to fend off criticism of their works were hideous beyond measure when compared to the guileless immaturity which Kiyoaki or Isao had displayed. Artists dragged this immaturity throughout their lives . . . into their eighties. It was as if they made the swaddling clothes they hauled along into merchandise.

  If there was anything worse it was the pseudo-artists; their indescribable arrogance together with their particular brand of obsequiousness gave off an odor peculiar to lazy men. Hishikawa was simply a sloth living by hanging onto others, but he pretended to be the elegant, listless aristocrat living in the tropics. Honda was irritated by his habit of saying at restaurants, wine list in hand: “Since Itsui Products are footing the bill anyway . . . ,” and of then proceeding to order the more expensive wines. Honda was not all that fond of wine.