To and fro, incessantly, our Shuun vacillated in despondency. Finally, able to continue no longer, he cries out violently, Now I know how fickle is a woman’s heart! You jilted me for the marquess, and you alone revel in prosperity!
What a heartless thing to say! How could you think that of your Tatsu?
Eh? He turned around in astonishment. Outdoors only the sky was bright, with the glow of the already setting sun; indoors it was quiet, with nothing but the statue standing there, forlorn. But how abominable. It was, then, because my singleness of mind was disturbed, split into two paths—Should I take this one? That one?—that I heard Tatsu’s voice. Kichibei keeps on scoring such painful bull’s-eyes! Alas, I was tricked by some illusory shadow, tricked even into hearing a voice that did not exist—such foolishness. Damn you, Tatsu, for sending me so badly astray. I did not know that you were merely another inconstant woman, like duckweed drifting in the tides of our floating world; I mistook you for a bodhisattva from Heaven. I’m sorry I attached that halo: it was wasted on you. Narihira, nary a hero—I don’t care if it’s nary a leper or Nari the Leper—marry Nari; be merry!
Your language is excessive. What is inconstant is your own heart.
That was strange. Assuredly I heard her voice. Have I still not awakened from my unenlightened dreams? He rubbed his eyes and saw a dejected-looking statue. He strained to listen. A counting rhyme carried by the wind, sung by children gathered together, bouncing a ball under a fir tree he knew well:
—Bounce the ball a hundred times and pass it.
—It’s my ball, it’s my ball.
Age of one: she’s at the breast.
Age of two: now food is best.
Age of three: she’s left her parents’ room for her own bed.
Age of four: twists paper into string, or so it’s said.
Age of five: it’s yarn she’s learned to spin; and by your leave,
Age of six: already she is learning how to weave.
. . .
A high-pitched chorus, innocent of suffering; carefree voices blithely counting to the same rhythm. Men made these songs, but such voices are the exquisite flutes of Heaven. Shuun envied the pleasures of a world in which desire is given a hundred bounces and a pass; regret is when you miss a catch; crimes and punishments alike are forgotten; and neither love nor inconstancy yet exists. Ah, such innocence is holy! Once, I too spun a simpler yarn of pristine thread: it could not last; it was dyed in happiness. And then, all too soon, knotted up indissolubly in pain and suffering and entangled in the wet twine of reverie. He closed his eyes.
I don’t like that color. There indeed, cruelly enough, was the image of Tatsu’s face, her eyes welling with tears and conveying an air of wanting to explain. He could find nothing there to hate.
It’s clear that what’s inconstant here is your own heart. Can a sheet of newsprint anger you so much you would annul our solemn vows?
Such a complaint is not unreasonable. But since you joined the viscount, your only letter has been the one Tahara delivered; whereas I’ve sent you many such communications: first, congratulations on your reunion with your father; later, my own complaints at being forsaken. When I pick up a writing brush, it feels as though I’m speaking directly into my reader’s ear, so I even wrote passages that would be embarrassing to let others hear. Foolishness in which I quite forgot myself. I wrote: The temple bells that toll at night count out solitude’s complaints, yet they cause me no pain; I rejoice encountering you even in the haze of imagination. But then a bird’s morning cry interrupts the course of my dream; the remnants of that dream reproach my waking life, and that is bitter indeed.
Even that was not enough. I added a detailed postscript: Your personal beauty, alas, now sows seeds of concern, namely, that some of the serious womanizers in our capital might fall head over heels. I fear as well that you may think of me as merely another rake like them. I feel truly, truly dismayed that my prospects appear so slim.
I even raised absurd lamentations to the gods: Pity me; let the months and years pass quickly, for only when her appearance changes will my deep love be proved unchanging.
Thus did I register reproach upon querulous reproach. Then I chose a strong-looking envelope and checked it meticulously, flipping it over, time and again, to confirm the security of the seal; I affixed the correct postage; finally, I sent it off. But you never even sent a reply acknowledging receipt: insincere conduct that left me vainly awaiting a delivery “today”; if not “today,” then “tomorrow.”
That was all my father’s doing as he sought some other groom for me.
Once again that illusion betrays me; that maddening voice leads me astray.
He raised his head. The face of the Icon of Liberty displayed the composure of one who has achieved satori. Outside,
Three willow trees in Kiyomiz’;
A sparrow by a hawk is seized:
“Chi, cha!” the cry;
Bounce, bounce; bye, bye.
—Bounce the ball a hundred times and pass it, pass it.
No other sound. So am I, after all, being tricked by that shadowy image?
Ah, the frustration! I should give her up completely and at once—renounce all worldly attachments and desires!
But in spite of this decision, a measure of longing still lingered in our Shuun’s breast, and whether he stared at her or shut his eyes against her, it was precisely because of his affection for her. Clouds faded in the dusk; the sun disappeared. The room, its window facing east, grew darker. Everything was turning a faint charcoal color except for the white skin of the vibrant figure of Tatsu, which seemed to be spared from the twilight and to float toward him. It was like seeing Tatsu herself on the night of a hazy moon; it seemed as though if he called out, surely there would be a response. She was a thing of his own creation, yet Shuun was hopelessly smitten: rapt; hardly breathing; every hair on his body standing on end.
Suddenly, a violent revolution in his thoughts. As his frozen eyes suddenly flashed with movement, his complexion altered. Hah! Can I be deluded by a pretty face? Had you in your heart as much integrity as would fit on the head of a pin, your Shuun would put his life in your hands. But why should I still pine for someone as unchaste as yourself ? Merely looking at your sickly pale neck leaves me feeling defiled.
He jerked his body around to face the other direction. Then he heard someone speaking, sobbing. As the object of such doubt, such disgust, I have no reason to live. If it has come to this, I would rather my useless life were ended by your hand. The voice was indeed coming from the wooden image.
How bizarre! Could it be that my own soul has entered the image of Tatsu I carved out with such single-minded devotion? Say it’s an obsession that now rules its host: then it’s a monster seeking to prevent Shuun from severing all bonds of mutual love and returning to the beginning before I went astray. Come, come! I’ll show you the acme of an icon sculptor’s skill: both love and regret sliced into shreds!
So saying, he stood up arrow straight, hoisting high in his right hand a hatchet: the downstroke could cleave iron. But her own figure seemed replete, virtually overflowing, with nobility, compassion, love. In truth, her naked body looked so moist and tender that were he to cut it, warm blood would gush forth. How could he, brutally, ogre-like, visit upon her a cruel blade? His resentment, his anger, both froze: ice over flame.
The hatchet slipped insensibly from his hand. Unable to cut himself free of an unrequitable love, this man could not hold back his tears but gulped them down as his writhing body fell prostrate with a thud. That instant, a crashing sound, as of something falling: was it descending from Heaven? Erupting from Earth? Pearl white arms warmly encircled his neck; a cloud of hair fragrantly caressed his cheek. With a gasp of astonishment, he shot a rapid glance: it was her as she used to be back then. Tatsu! Shuun returned her embrace and kissed her on the forehead.
Had the image come alive, or had the woman come to him? The question itself is naive; any reply, deficient.<
br />
Denouement: Many Dharmas, One Truth
THE GRACE BESTOWED BY HIS REVERED GODDESS, THERE FOR ALL TO SEE
Always, but always, Heaven answers the call of love: Shuun’s utter fidelity touched the divine heart, and grateful for his salvation, he was swept up in welcome by his revered goddess, who had descended to greet him. Hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder, he and Tatsu together proudly ascended above the clouds, trailing behind them the scent of white rose. Kichibei and all the rest of the villagers, young and old, raised such a din of congratulations it thundered like the very drums of Heaven. When the sound of their voices penetrated Shichizō’s crooked ears, his horns of arrogance fell away, and he left his ogre’s lair in the Black Mountains. Brave, newly awakened, he and Tahara now led the procession, one on the left, the other on the right.
After that, she was seen by many people in various places, bestriding a white cloud, her halo resplendent. However, the figure a gentleman beheld was also wearing a velvet gown with a long train, and a jeweled tiara colorfully decorated with ostrich feathers; whereas what an aristocrat espied was a pure white collar and an obi sash of brilliant gold brocade. In contrast, a farmer beheld a ripped cotton quilt jacket, a pair of rice-straw sandals, and a sharp sickle thrust into the belt; while he who saw a figure in an Awa-style cotton crepe robe, with an obi sash of twill and a silvery hairpin, was a small-time merchant. In Hokkaido, where the wind is cold, what she wore when she appeared before the eyes of fishermen was wadded cotton patchwork on which herring scales gleamed mysteriously; whereas on Sado Island, beyond the sounding waves, it was a twice-woven kimono of an indeterminate color. Even Marquess Narihira eventually had an encounter: high-heeled shoes and a dazzling dress gaily adorned with ribbons.
Beyond the slightest question these were the myriad manifestations of a single Goddess of Enlightened Liberty, never mentioned in the Tripitaka: the very same one that Shuun carved. Without exception, each and every person who beholds her makes her his guardian deity for the remainder of his life. And without a doubt, those of ardent faith are blessed with their just rewards: for posterity, prosperity; for the family, harmony.
If by any chance one harbors some small resentment toward the great deity, yet one can do as Shuun did—sheathe flame in ice—then of course she will display her inherent Buddha nature, and one’s prayerful petitions for salvation will not be made in vain. But if one errs by drawing nigh the false wooden figureheads and earthen idols of Mohammedanism, Mormonism, and the like, then the awful consequence shall be divine retribution both in this world and the next. Her halo of light shall become a ring of fire, and the conflagration shall destroy the transgressor and all his family and, beyond death, their very souls. So it is said.
In humility and awe. Anakashiko; ana kashiko.
KUNIKIDA DOPPO
Kunikida Doppo (1871–1908) wrote in a lyrical and moving style, using experiences from his own wanderings around Japan. His interest in literary themes inspired by his Christian concerns led him to portray the sometimes hidden significance of the life of those, sometimes the humble and the poor, he found around him. Doppo’s story “Meat and Potatoes” (Gyūniku to bareisho, 1901) chronicles the tribulations of those men and women who tried to live and work in Hokkaido, the frigid and, at that time, largely unsettled northern island of Japan.
MEAT AND POTATOES (GYŪNIKU TO BAREISHO)
Translated by Leon Zolbrod
There was a fairly substantial Western-style building called the Meiji Club along the moat in downtown Tokyo. The building still stands today but it has since changed hands, and the Meiji Club as such no longer exists.
It was a winter night while the club was still doing well. Lights were burning in the dining room upstairs, and now and then you could hear loud laughter inside. This was very unusual, for the club seldom had gatherings at night. Generally it was only during the daylight hours that smoke rose from the chimney. The clock had already struck eight, but there were no signs that the meeting was breaking up. Six rickshaws were lined up beside the entrance, but all the rickshaw men seemed to be at the service entrance playing their favorite game of dice.
Just then a man emerged from the darkness. His overcoat collar was turned up and his felt hat was pulled down over his eyes. Walking up to the door, he pressed hard on the doorbell. When the door opened, he asked in a low, quiet voice, “Is Mr. Takeuchi here?”
The doorman answered politely, “Yes sir, he is. And you?” He was a thin-faced man with one eye, and he wore Japanese clothes.
The visitor said, “Please take this to him.” He gave the doorkeeper a calling card which simply read, “Okamoto Seifu.” It gave no rank or title. The doorman took it, quickly went upstairs, and soon returned.
“This way, please.” The upstairs room to which he was led was suffocating, for the stove had been going full blast. Three men were sitting in front of the stove, and there were three others who sat a little ways from it. They were all leaning against the back of their chairs. Off to one side was a table with a whiskey bottle on it. Whiskey glasses, some empty and some half-filled, were scattered on the table, and the men looked half drunk.
When he saw Okamoto, Takeuchi immediately stood up and heartily offered him a chair. “Sit over here, won’t you?” Okamoto, however, seemed to be in no hurry; he looked around. Five of the men he recognized, but he had never met the sixth, a light-skinned, well-dressed man of medium height. Takeuchi noticed this.
“That’s right, you probably haven’t met this person before. Let me introduce you. This is Kamimura. He works for a coal-mining company in Hokkaido. Kamimura, this is an old friend of mine, Okamoto . . .”
He hadn’t finished the introduction when Kamimura said cheerfully, “I’m glad to meet you. I’ve read everything you’ve written, and now to meet you personally . . .”
Okamoto simply said, “I’m glad to meet you,” and sat down without another word.
“Now go on with your story,” said Watanuki, a short man with black sideburns.
“Yes, what happened then?” demanded Iyama. He was a thin man who was balding and bleary-eyed.
Kamimura, the man from the coal-mining company, laughed uneasily, “With Okamoto here, it’s hard for me to go on.”
“What’s it all about?” Okamoto asked Takeuchi.
“It’s really quite fascinating. Somehow or other we got started on our personal philosophies. Most scintillating and what erudition; you’ll see.”
“I’ve said just about all I have to say. We’d like to hear what your personal philosophy is. How about it, fellows? After all you’re the real thing, not philistines like us.” Kamimura was trying to back out.
“Oh no, you don’t. You finish first what you were saying.”
“Yes, I’d like that very much.” Okamoto took a glass of whiskey and tossed it down in one gulp.
“I’m afraid my views are entirely different from Okamoto’s. My point is that the real and the ideal are simply irreconcilable; they can never be reconciled.”
“Hear, hear,” chimed in Iyama.
Kamimura continued, “And if the two are irreconcilable, my ideal is to submit to reality rather than follow the ideal.”
“Is that all,” Okamoto groaned as he picked up a second glass of whiskey.
“But, look, you can’t eat ideals!” Kamimura made a face like a rabbit when he said this.
“Obviously, they’re not beefsteaks!” Takeuchi opened his large month and laughed.
“Yes, they are beefsteaks. I mean reality is beefsteak. It is stew.”
“Omelets, perhaps?” said Matsuki with a straight face, and everybody burst out laughing. Till then he had been silent and half-asleep; his face was flushed and he looked to be the youngest one there.
“Hey, this is no laughing matter,” Kamimura said, a little agitated. “This is merely an analogy. If you follow the ideal, you’ll have nothing to eat but potatoes, and remember, you may not even have potatoes to eat. Now which do you prefer, potatoes
or meat?”
“I prefer meat.” In a sleepy monotone Matsuki spoke up again. He was serious.
“Yes, but potatoes are a side dish for meat,” said Watanuki, the man with the black sideburns, looking pleased with what he had said.
“Exactly! Ideals are a side dish for reality. What would this world be if we didn’t have potatoes? But to eat only potatoes . . . I shudder at the thought,” Kamimura turned toward Okamoto looking somewhat satisfied.
Okamoto asked calmly, “Isn’t Hokkaido famous for its potatoes?”
“I’ve had my share of Hokkaido potatoes. Takeuchi knows about it. You may not believe, it but I happen to be an old alumnus of Dōshisha,1 and just as you might expect, I was an ardent Christian like the rest of them. In other words, I belonged to the Potato Party in a big way.”
Iyama blinked his eyes in amazement and pointed at Kamimura. “You?”
“After all there’s nothing odd about it. I was still young. Okamoto, I don’t know how old you are, but I graduated from Dōshisha at twenty-two. That was thirteen years ago, and I wish you could have seen what an idealist and puritan I was then. From the time I was in school, I was so completely under the spell of Hokkaido that I trembled whenever I heard the name.”
Matsuki spoke up again. “Quite a puritan!”
Kamimura cut him short with his chin and continued as he sipped on his drink, “I wanted to leave this sullied and defiled part of the country and build my life on the free land of Hokkaido.” Okamoto looked quietly and intently at Kamimura’s face.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 24
