Time passed. For the first time he took cognizance of the depth of his sleep. It had been long, long. Yet now it seemed to him that he had only continued on immersed in a series of shallow dreams. His drowsy thoughts seemed to link themselves together, piercing distinctly into his very eyes.
“Ah, Miminotoji.” These words came back into his memory, springing up again, echoing in his consciousness.
Ah Miminotoji. I still think of you. I did not just come here . . . yesterday. Was it yesterday? . . . Or the day before? . . . It was not then that I came here to sleep. I have been sleeping a much longer time. Ah, lady. Since before I came here . . . before I slept here . . . until now, when I can remember again, I have thought again and again, and about only one thing.
From so long ago, since the time of his ancestors, he had lived on this earth . . . such had been his custom. The man suddenly thought to get up. But he felt a pain as though his muscles would tear apart. It hurt him as though the very joints of his bones were being crushed. He remained still. Blackness as ebony. A white figure carved in the very walls made of huge stones, like dark jewels, he put forth his hands gravely, solemnly, yet gently.
Memories of Miminotoji. Only this in his deeply frozen memories. Then as his thoughts slowly began to spread themselves outward; he pulled along a train of short, associated memories, various appearances from the days that had passed. And then his clear will rose again, in the midst of his death-withered body.
Miminotoji. I caught only one glimpse of you. But I had heard of you for so many months, so many years. Because of me, you must come. Miminotoji.
From the depths of his memory, something floated up, a sort of mental reflection.
I? Where can I be? . . . And where is this? And first of all, I must ask who it is that I am. For I have forgotten completely. Yet wait. I remember. It was then. I remember it, the sound of the wild ducks’ cry. It was when I was pulled out of the Oseda house, when I went to the Ihare pond. The banks of the pond were crowded with people. My head was poking out from the clumps of low reeds growing there. All rose up screaming, with loud voices. The sound of those voices will always remain in the depths of my being. Yes, it was the water in the pond. Autumn, I’m sure it was autumn. The voice of the wild ducks, floating on the surface of the water.
Now that I remember . . . wait, I seem to remember the sound of a weeping woman, one I fell in love with at first sight . . . ah, that was Miminotoji. And I remember that instant when it seemed as though my soul, just like my body, suddenly seemed to contract. Then suddenly I felt as though I had entered into an easeful, a wide, wide universe. Then in an instant, my thoughts stopped altogether. . . . I could not see the sky, the earth, the flowers, even the color of the trees faded from my consciousness. . . . Somehow I, I myself, had become completely separated from this world. And from that time on, I, I myself, have completely forgotten everything altogether.
His ankles, his kneecaps, the joints of his hips, the base of the temples of his forehead, the hollows in his body: all began to shift and move because he moved the nape of his neck upward.
Quite by accident, his hips seemed to fold up under him. And as always, the deep blackness.
Ah . . . that’s what it is. The esteemed sorceress who lives in the country of Ise . . . my honored sister. She will come to call me forth.
Sister. I am here. Yet you, you are the one who serves the esteemed gods themselves. It is not for you to touch my body. I am here. Yes, it is here that I have finished. Yes, yes, I am dead. Dead. I was killed. I had forgotten. That’s it. This . . . this is my grave.
I cannot leave. To open it up, then. To come by on the road that passes my tomb, rip open the doors . . . yes. Can you do it? Can’t you do it, my dearest foolish sister?
But what is it? No one, no one has come here. But that is just as well. If my body were bathed in the sunlight, it would rot away before your very eyes. Yet how strange. Yes, yes it happened a long time ago. That sound, that wrenching open, happened a long time ago. The voice of my sister, the wrapping on the door of my tomb, what was said then seemed to be happening now . . . that’s what I thought, but it happened long ago.
It has not been such a long time since I came here. I know that. It was the Tenth Month, because the ducks were crying. And just like one of those ducks, with my head inclined to the side, I am now parted from everything. And then . . . my sister, weeping and wailing, made this poem for me. “Above the rough rocks grows the ashibi plant,” I heard her say; and then suddenly, winter came, and then I thought it was the beginning of the spring. It was the time when my body had already half melted away. The rest of the poem was “you may have fallen . . . but I must not say that you whom I must see are there.”
So she spoke, and I truly became one who is dead, it seemed to me then, too, just as now, When I felt around to see where I was, what so shocked me was my body. Under my robes, it seemed like a piece of a dried animal, somehow all flattened out.
He moved his arm. With one hand he searched in the black darkness of the space around him. And with the other, he searched, scratching his fingers on the top of the stone bench.
I feel as though I were the discarded shell of a cicada. On the next day, I heard a dirge of lamentation intoned, I think, at Futakamiyama by my brother. My sister would not end it but added her own song as well. That is how I know that I can say that my grave was here, at the top of Futakamiyama.
My dear sister. After her song, I lost consciousness of everything altogether. And after that what happened? I think that somehow a long, long period of time must have passed. When my beloved, my sacred sister, came, I must have had the feeling that I had been awakened from a long sleep, from a long dream. Now I feel as though I were awake from that deep sleep. And I hear a sound. A sound from long ago, perhaps . . .
I can stretch out my hands . . . and I seem to be able to see the light. I must quiet myself. Quiet myself. Because if I do not, then all my thoughts will scatter again. Now, and so vividly, a sense of my own past days is coming to me. But wait . . . even if that is true, who am I? I am here, but who am I, who was I? Whose child was I? Who was my wife? I cannot remember . . . anything . . .
He moved his elbows, craned his neck, and began to move and grope about using the top of his chest, his hips, his knees. And then he was truly able to let out a sigh, just like a living being.
How terrible this is. My clothing has rotted away completely. My kimono has turned into dust. So what should I do? I’m sleeping here without anything on at all.
It seemed that blood was now running in his body, in which the muscles had stiffened. Supporting himself on his elbows, he raised the upper half of his body in the midst of the darkness.
How cold it is. What are you saying that I should do? Oh sacred mother. . . . If you say that I was wicked, you are mistaken. Please give me clothing. Something to wear. . . . My body is freezing fast to the stone itself.
He used his voice. But it was not a voice, and the sound died away. And the sting of voiceless words continued on and on.
Help me. Help me, Mother. I have nothing to wear. I’m completely naked; I ought to be a newborn baby. So just like that, I’m crawling around on top of my covers. But couldn’t someone know I’m here? I’m banging my hands and feet around. Isn’t there anyone who can see?
Just as his whining voice suggested, with his body he moved his feet about, just like a spoiled child, then wriggled on the ground, again and again. In the depths of the tomb, where no light usually penetrated, there now appeared from some spot or other a thin shaft of light, like a membrane of ice, which made it possible to distinguish hazily the shapes of objects.
Now what to do? What do? Even my huge sword is completely rusted now . . .
II
The moon shone as before. The mountains stood high, and there were few places where the light could strike. It illuminated the valleys, made them sparkle; and the remaining rays of brightness rebounded back into the sky, then were reflected back i
nto the remaining nooks and crannies.
Close at hand were the peaks of Sawayama. They appeared blackened; they were as if interspersed, entangled with one another, as the undulations moved ever deeper. Sections were lit then fell into shade as the night deepened because of the slight fog that emerged. The moon-drenched night, so clear, gave a feeling of warmth and gentleness.
Ahead of the area where the foothills gathered together lay a riverbed, its white sand glittering. Like a spread fan before one’s eyes, wrapped in sparkling light, was the Ishikawa River. The long veins, filled with light crossing to the north and south, at the northern extremity, suddenly seemed to flatten out, near the village of Kawa no uchi. It was there, just where the break in the mountains was, where the Katoshio River—what we now call the Yamato River—drops onto the plain. To the northwest, the flat surfaces reflecting the shining light must surely be a series of bays—Kuseka, Nagase, Naniwa.
The night was quiet. The appearance of the mountain as the hour neared for the cock to crow, as though wet with dew, was gentle, quieting down all before it. Below, small late-blooming cherries were spread through the valley of Yamada.
There a road ran straight along. It suddenly descended between the two peaks of Nio no kami and Me no kami. It was an old road that ran from Naniwa to the capital of Asuka, and depending on the day, at noon it could be crowded with people. The road was wide and glistened white; at night it seemed to resemble spreading grass. The road crossed over the saddle between the two peaks. Once it descended again, at the spot where the steep descent began, the road slumped and became level again. Here stood a forest of cypress trees with their spiny twigs. They had held their shape there for more than half a century, arranged so they were standing together in a cluster. In the moonlight, in the shade of the trees where they held to the slope of the hill, had been constructed a tumulus. The moon shone unblinkingly; the mountains, ranged one upon another, closed their eyelids.
Come . . . come . . . come . . .
It was certainly a human voice.
The night voice of the bird summoned another echo. The voice was then still for a certain time. The silence grew deeper than before; in the clear brightness, it expanded to the fullest.
Along the row of the peaks of the mountain, to the south there could be seen, again and again, the ridges that formed the backbone of the mountain. One after another, the peaks rose more sharply—Fushigoe, Kushira, Kogose—until the tallest seemed to pierce the very void of the sky itself. This was Futagami Mountain, whose black shape seemed to tower over the tumulus.
What at first seemed to be shadows now began to appear, descending on this side of the Dagimaji road. Two, three, five, eight, nine. The shadows of nine men. They came hurrying out from the steep slope onto the Kongose road.
More than nine mere men, they resembled nine Shintō gods. Dressed all in white: headdresses, their hands and feet, and all their traveling clothes. As they came out onto the flatland, they stood in front of the trees.
Come . . . come . . . come
The sound seemed to emerge from the mouth of no one person; it seemed to be a momentary cry. Thinking it was the soul of the mountain speaking, they were astounded and raised their voices together. But the mountain, after this sudden burst of sound, fell back into a deep silence.
Come . . . come . . . I call you, the soul of Irasume of the southern family of the Fujiwara. Here in the depths of the mountain, there can be no wandering. Hurry back to your real body! Come! Come! We have been searching, searching for your soul here in these mountains. Come! Come!
The nine priests became as gods in their hearts. They placed their staffs in the ground as they undid their headdresses. On this occasion, these headbands were made of nothing more than strips of white cloth. The men unfurled them to the full extent of their length, then all nine faced the tumulus.
Come! . . . come!
As they repeated these words, the natural gloom of their feelings and the fatigue of their bodies craving rest returned them in spirit into ordinary human beings. As they continued to look on, they wound the strips of white cloth around their heads again as a headdress, and taking their walking sticks, they set off again as ordinary travelers.
So then, this is as far as we can go in silence. . . .
Their eight voices responding together, as though they had practiced such gestures together, they suddenly, in one accord, relaxed on the grass, two lying flat on the ground.
This is the border between Yamato and Kawachi. And now we have finished the ceremony of calling back the souls. Now the body of the young lady, here in her hermitage, has taken back her soul. She must be quite lively now.
But what is this spot?
You don’t know, then? This serves as the Great Barrier Gate between Yamato and Kawachi. And the gate of the Tajima road as well.
Another, who appeared to be one of the elders, continued the explanation.
Some forty or fifty years ago, this area was simply referred to as “the Gate,” and there was no sign to mark it. It was then that the emperor’s Shiga palace became so well known. In Yamato, this was the person who resided in the royal residence of Oseda in Shiki. The body was ordered to be interred at the embankment above the pond, but it was given temporary burial because of a curse; then, entrusting the body to the ancient pronouncements of Amawakehiko, the body was moved here just as it was and buried here, in this tumulus. Another voice, in still harsher tones, took up the story.
In those times of which you speak, there was a criminal, a royal child. And there was a spirit with a more evil heart still. This evil spirit wanted to come to Yamato and face us directly, saying that it wished to cause us trouble.
Yes, we were still in the prime of our own youth then. That was more than fifty years ago.
Now one of the men spoke up as though he were going to begin a discussion of some sort.
That’s true. I was used to dig graves then. And after that, I was conscripted to work on the Tajima road as well. I knew good deal about this grave. The few saplings that were just shooting up then have now grown into this huge forest. How terrifying it was! There was the time when the spirit descended on the man who had come from Asukabe in Kawauchi.
The nine men now returned to their personae as ordinary men of the world. They had forgotten how lonely it was to talk of times past on top of the mountain. The fact that the time had grown late made thoughts of this world come to them thick and fast.
So, that’s fine, then. Let’s return.
Good. That’s good.
All now loosened their headdresses and threw aside their canes. They now appeared only as simple pilgrims, dressed in white.
Still, all of them seemed to know that this grave was a spot with a history of its own, one to take note of. So, therefore, should they try just once more to summon the spirit?
All the pilgrims followed along with the voice of the elder as the rite of calling was begun once again.
Come! Come!
Oh . . .
At first, each of them doubted that he had heard this strange voice. And each became somehow fearful.
Come! Come! Come!
This time, from the depths of the tumulus, a voice responded clearly, a voice somehow still frozen yet that of a being just beginning to breathe again.
Oh . . .
The nine were shaken to the depths of their souls. They became ordinary men again. Their very bodies began to shake, and they quickly disappeared, just like the clouds that scatter on the peaks, off to the valley of Takeuchi, to the Asuka pass, to the Tajima road.
Now, there was only one single voice that echoed through the folds of the mountains and the valleys.
SHIGA NAOYA
Shiga Naoya (1883–1971) had a lengthy and illustrious career, dominating the prewar literary scene with his exquisite short stories and longer works and particularly his novel Dark Night’s Passing (An’ya kōro), first published in serial form from 1921 until 1937. After the war, although he wrote lit
tle, Shiga’s influence on younger writers remained important.
“The Diary of Claudius” (Kurodeiasu no nikki), written in 1912, illustrates Shiga’s interest in Shakespeare (Claudius is Hamlet’s uncle) and other great English writers, as well as his close association with Arishima Takeo, one of whose works also is translated in this section. “The Paper Door” (Shōji), published in 1911, shows a different, and more intimate, side of Shiga’s writing. Finally, “The Shopboy’s God” (Kozō no kamisama), a story written later in 1919, combines in a few pages Shiga’s ability to evoke realism and a certain fantasy.
THE DIARY OF CLAUDIUS (KURODEIASU NO NIKKI)
Translated by Francis B. Tenny
——th day
The man has an unusually good head. He understands much, and what’s more, he is a poet. I must talk with him soon to win his support. Nothing will stop me from confessing everything. But now is not the time. He is too upset now. So, too, am I. So soon after my brother’s death, my taking his wife to be mine, and my assuming the throne, after these changes in my life I simply cannot go on in the same old way. And then my joy in obtaining my long-standing love—a love that I had thought hopeless—has unsettled me.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 75
