These feelings I now hide as best I can. I do this not because I am ashamed of my feelings or what I have done. I hide them because I understand there are those who will be displeased at these my feelings. Not only because I understand there are such people do I hide my feelings, but also because I can sympathize with their thoughts.
He is number one among those who may doubt. Sad to say, he has recently appeared melancholy and dejected. What is more, he shows some displeasure at me. I can sympathize with that, too. These tender feelings reflect my wishes for him. I must cherish these tender feelings as much as I can.
——day
I am not even a little ashamed of what I have done. There is no doubt, though, that in conventional terms it was not a pleasing act. For the next few months, at least, I must vacillate between happiness and suffering.
Few have their feelings so swayed by outward conditions as do I. When one tries to suppress one’s feelings, one always fails. The only way is to let things go as they will and to manage as well as possible for the moment.
Be that as it may, now is not the time to talk with him. The air is not right. If we fail in talks now, we cannot help but destroy our relationship permanently and irretrievably.
When I met him a little while ago, he had a strange look, and I asked him, “Are you feeling unwell?” His reply displeased me. No, he is like a child. It was truly a display of vulgar, childish malice. I must ever maintain the reserve not to be taken in by such childishness.
It is fortunate, however, that he dropped the idea of going back to study in Wittenberg. If he had left under these circumstances, the gap between us might ultimately have widened to an unbridgeable gulf.
I cannot possibly love him the way his mother loves him. That I cannot expect to do so is quite reasonable. Even if I could, he is not one to accept it. That is not the big problem. For now, understanding between us is more important than love. If we can reach mutual understanding, love may grow from that.
——day
I called for him two or three times, but he did not come. Of course, tonight’s banquet was not only for him, but when I saw that the seat I had provided for him next to mine remained empty until the end, no matter how much I drank I could not help but become more and more unbearably depressed. Old Polonius’ efforts to cheer me made me only the more downcast. I had to endure it there until the end.
“The customs of our banquets are more honored in the breach. They call us swinish from the weakness of these customs.” Saying this, he went off somewhere with his friends, it was reported. The lack of civility in his refusal of my first marital banquet did not directly anger me, but if not angry, I was all the more displeased. I must admit to expressing these feelings. Perhaps he was hurt that his father’s funeral rites were too simple.
I will talk about it with him soon. There is no reason not to confess that I loved his mother from before he was born. That will displease him, no doubt. But I must speak of it in order to dispel our misunderstanding. I must find the occasion to tell him. If I find no good occasion to speak, he will not understand the half of it. I shall wait for a good opportunity.
My wife seems to have something she wants him to learn. If she says it now, he will only argue her down. He is more of an adult than she thinks he is.
——day
All last night I was disgusted. I simply could not get to sleep. Even though I was sleepy, I could not sleep. Even now an unpleasant feeling has settled in the pit of my stomach. It muddles my head, too. Maybe I have constantly been thinking of something without being aware of it. Has it gotten on my nerves? Last night was ghastly, even the weather. Fierce winds battered the windows incessantly. In order to cool my aching head, hurt from too much drinking, I opened the shutter. At that moment, an apparition, a ghostly little globule, flew by, gleaming dimly white in the darkness seen through the cracks. From the brightness of my room, I thought I saw it suddenly there in the darkness.
The outside temperature was very cold. It could not have been more than thirty seconds. When a violent gust of wind threatened to blow out the lamp, I closed the shutter. Suddenly I saw the luminous object again—rather than see it, I felt it. The flying one had come again, hovering and peeking through the crack. That’s how I felt it was. It was weird.
I feel recently that I am somehow being cursed.
This must arise from my physiological condition. Well, I have work to do. I must not be obsessed about it. I cannot leave just now, but after a bit I think I will go boar hunting.
——day
This morning old Polonius came bustling in as if he had some business for me, saying that the man appeared to love Ophelia, his daughter. Polonius went on tediously telling me that he had cautioned her fully and I had no need to worry.
I, too, had sensed that he loved the girl. She was an intelligent young woman, and I sympathized with her. I did not think I needed to be so cautious about the relationship as the old man was. I said nothing about it today, but to tell the truth, I hope that he will savor that love with a deep commitment from the heart. If he does, then some understanding of my love for his mother should arise from it.
Old Polonius explained that the man’s love seemed relatively frivolous. That is a pity. The old man is overconfident (with no great basis for it) that he knows all about the world, that he can tell what the sweet and what the sour of it all. He sees everything his way. But not by any means does he understand things. The man, though, is not the shallow youth that Polonius thinks he is.
—Winter is usually a season to feel good, but this year is rather strange. The change in my life has addled me in mind and body. I must quickly reach an understanding with the man.
My good wife’s attitude toward me is exactly the same as her attitude toward my brother. I would be wrong to feel any dissatisfaction with the disposition of this peaceable woman. I would like for my wife’s disposition to set the tone for my household. That is what I am thinking strongly these days.
Polonius just came in to tell me this.—It happened yesterday, he said. The girl was sewing in her room. Hatless, with his coat flapping open, his face pale, he rushed in, grabbed her wrists abruptly, and stared long into her face. He shook her arms lightly, raised and lowered his head two or three times, and then with a deep sigh he left, saying nothing but looking back at her over his shoulder. Old Polonius related this with theatrical gestures as if he had been watching in person. Surely this was proof that the man was mad with love, Polonius said. I do not think so. If that were the case, wouldn’t something have happened? On the other hand, of course, he is a more dramatic man than old Polonius, so whatever happened might not have amounted to so much after all.
——day
Polonius showed me the man’s letter to the girl and asserted that it showed conclusively that the illness was caused by love. In his vanity, the old man speaks glibly about how she had flatly rejected him in accordance with her father’s wishes. For me, I cannot accept it just like that. First of all, he has been staring at me in a most irritating manner for two or three days now. There is a nastiness that underlies that look. I lose my freedom of will when he stares at me like a curse. I recall the apparition watching me through the crack in the shutter last night.
They were not the eyes of a person anguished by love. I have observed him looking at his mother in that way, too. It may be an unjust suspicion, but his mother appears to regret her too-quick remarriage after his father’s death. If that is not an unjust suspicion, her regret is surely the result of his poisonous stare. My wife does seem to believe that is the cause of his madness. For me the pain is intolerable.
I do not think to blame her. I know well her fine but timid nature. I have no choice but to resign myself to it, considering the lamentable event that brought it about. It will be all right if only I hold more firmly to my first thought, that this was not an event to be repented.
—Old Polonius said that since I do not accept what he tells me, we should check and see for o
urselves as if by chance, when the man and the girl meet in the vacant corridor outside the main hall. Eavesdropping is not an agreeable practice, but I agreed to it.
——day
I am not at all ashamed of my recent marriage. If I had felt the least bit ashamed, I, with my character, could never have done it. No matter how much I loved her, it would have been wrong for me to marry her without full confidence in my own morality. I would have been a fool to do so. For myself, though, I did have a strong sense of confidence. Because of that confidence I boldly proposed marriage, received her consent, and immediately had it proclaimed to the land. In the announcement I felt not the slightest need for any feeble explanation. I felt myself completely confident. Was there a weak point there somewhere? I did misjudge my strength. I see now that he has taken advantage of my weakness. I did not at all foresee that he would strike in such a common, low-grade, incomprehensible, unsympathetic manner. He views my actions as hardly different from an adulterous affair in a back alley. He has no doubts about his view. I was little prepared for such a vulgar interpretation of our relationship.
I must struggle my hardest against this.
As I thought like this, I suddenly felt a frightening weakness in myself. I realized it all the more keenly.—I am being betrayed by that cheap, conventional, so-called conscience latent in my heart.
Polonius said to his daughter, “’Tis too much proved, that with devotion’s visage and pious action we do sugar o’er the devil himself.” On so hearing, I felt at once that he was speaking of my conduct. How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience. I was astonished at the sudden realization. Chiding myself, I tried to think clearly. “Wherein should I be ashamed?” With that thought, if I did not think too much, was I thinking so because it was unbearable, or was it that I did not understand in the depth of my soul that there was nothing to be ashamed of ? The ideas seethed within me. Suddenly I was nervous.
My big failing is to be taken in completely by some trifling sentiment and so to lose my equilibrium. Not infrequently is my mood unbalanced throughout the day by my morning dream.
I have no fear of what others may think of me. I know well there are many who hate me. Even if I know who they are, I pay no heed so long as the facts are as they are. I am not a coward about those things. But I can be carried away. Then I become most terribly frightened at the way I am carried away.
—When I was hiding with Polonius, the man came walking, lost in thought, eyes cast down. He had a calm, noble expression. Concealed as I was, I felt a bit foolish.
He spoke to the young woman.
“I am myself indifferent honest, but yet proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offenses at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time or circumstance to act them in.”
“Get thee to a nunnery. Go thy ways to a nunnery,” he said to her repeatedly.
As words merely suggesting his character, what he said was of great interest to me, and I can sympathize with him. He seemed deep in contemplation. His contemplation seemed to be related to that matter. It relates to me, without a doubt. If these thoughts are hatched, I do not know what he will do. What should I do? Suppose we talk it over at this juncture.
But if these thoughts are a product of his health, one idea would be to send him to England.
—My wife told Polonius’ daughter, as if posing a puzzle:
“I do wish that your good beauties be the happy cause of his wildness; so shall I hope your virtues will bring him to his wonted way again.”
I do not know any woman with as kind, as tender, a heart as my wife. For her sake I do not wish to hate him. I still love his surpassing ability and his matchless character. Somehow we must come quickly to a mutual understanding.
He said something about a play. If he truly likes such pastimes, that is a happy sign.
——day
—When did I poison your father?
Who saw it? The one who saw it, who was he? Is there even one such person? How did such an idea ever enter your head? Did you hear of it? Did you learn of it? Did you imagine it? There is no cheap dramatist like you in the whole world. They all are ganging up to make me out a madman. Never have I had such a bad experience.
What satisfaction do you get from threatening me as a criminal who murdered his brother? Your imaginations are as foul as Vulcan’s smithy. Have you had no doubts about the matter? Does the fancy come from that cheap literary deviltry in you? Haven’t you had doubts?
Nobody is as devoted to plays as you are. Do you want to be the hero in a stupid tragedy like that? As long as you play the role yourself alone, that is fine. You are forcing me to play the role of a villain I know nothing about. Yes, you are forcing me. It is unforgivable.
There is no one as conceited, as lecturesome, as selfish, as mad about the theater as you. Nor is any man so talkative.
You asked the old man what role he played long ago in the university theater. “I did enact Julius Caesar. I was killed in the Capitol,” he said. Why did you steal a look at my face just then? How accurately did you think you could read my heart by watching my face? You may have understood that my heart lost its composure at that moment. But you would not think about why I lost my composure. According to your script, you would look no deeper. I understood at once why you stole that look at me. When I sensed directly the purpose of your stolen glance, my hidden inner bent for trashy literature betrayed me. The harder I strive to act innocent, the more my heart is exposed. So in the end, an expression meeting your fancy showed on my face. You think you have captured some welcome proof. That is all right so far. But what about the play? The Murder of Gonzago. What kind of brazen device is that by a man who says he dislikes the banality of words? What an impudent way to beat a man down. With your propensity for skeptical talk, you believe things too simply and you calmly presume upon them. My easily influenced heart is inevitably caught up by your audacity. My heart is completely entrapped. But what kind of proof is this?
How in silence I did fight the devil within me. I could not bear to stay the time and place. But when I thought about the danger of leaving, I could not leave. I do not know how many times I repeated to myself the words “Ignore it. Don’t be moved.” But Horatio stared steadily and offensively at my face. His gaze was fixed on the tiniest muscle twitches in my face, at length making me nervous.
What the king in the play said made one feel that it was spoken in fact by your father. It made me feel that I was truly a dreadful scoundrel. Well, does it matter? Does a thing like that make any difference? What fact does that prove?
The ulterior motive here is frightening. It has a detestable secret purpose. You seek to capture my feelings in an ambush. I have seen that plainly. I have fallen into it.
I earlier noticed your secret plot. Up until now, though, I have tried to look kindly on it. I suppressed as best I could my ill will toward you. I did that for the sake of your virtuous mother. That cannot have been more than part of my feelings. I could not bear to face the danger. I feel I am struggling to sink something that continues to stay afloat. I can no longer continue such foolish, laborious efforts.
Now I hate you from the bottom of my heart. I can hate from the bottom of my heart.
——day
Poisoned. How could a thing like that be concealed? Before so many people’s eyes, how could it be hidden? If someone knew about it, no matter the authority brought to suppress it, wouldn’t the news have traveled in turn from one mouth to an ear and on from mouth to ear?
Do you really know a single person who could hear such malicious gossip as other than false? Who is there? Where can you have gotten proof that could be considered objective?
First of all, if I were such a scoundrel as could conceal an evil deed so skillfully, I would not have been easily taken in by your transparent tricks. If only I had not married my wife so soon after my brother’s death. I was confident that it was the best thing to do.
I am troubled tha
t you joke so much with little serious thought. I am troubled, too, that you do it dishonestly. Nothing is so disgraceful as blatant betrayal. Something perfectly plain can be mistaken if it has been presented in a devious manner.
No matter what you say, you are the most beloved son of my most beloved wife.
Because of your action, I can no longer speak all my thoughts to my wife. My feelings today are rather tender. Isn’t there maybe a chance here for a talk and some common understanding? I pray with all my heart that nothing happens before we have this opportunity.
—So, Polonius was killed! Run through with a sword, they say. The man is crazy! A crazy devil!!
——day
In the end, he has even wanted to make his mother repent. He is a man who would stage a tragedy here on earth. He was educated just to create this plot. His philosophy exists just to give it meaning. His devious manner of speaking and his superficial cynicism serve only to modulate the changes in the script. That is all there is to it. Assigning himself the lead role, he makes me the villain. Any actor can play the hero of the tragedy in a way to make a woman weep. In her innocence, his simple mother is presumed upon.
—When he blamed his mother, he acted, she said, as if he saw a vision of his father. When she said, “In moments of madness one can skillfully give form to what never was,” he appeared to become very angry. I can’t imagine he could create such a transparent play; he may indeed have become truly mad. If he has those strange thoughts that his father was murdered, they may come from that vision.
Well, he is insane. For a sane person, he contradicts himself too clearly. If he held such an outrageous fantasy of the death of his own father, he thought nothing about the children of Polonius, whom he stabbed by mistaken identity. He called it simply “reaping what one sows.” He is reported to have said, “I did a pitiful act, but it was God’s will. Heaven chastises me, and using me as a convenient tool, it may have punished them.” Really, when did Polonius commit a crime worthy of death? So Laertes, whose father was killed, and that girl, too, what should be done about them?
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 76
