by Неизвестный
The maiden silently shook her head,
Displeased, he took his leave.
Oh noble love,
No great rank would she have.
Now then, after, there came on foot,
A merchant as rich as Croesus,
On his chest laden with gold
A large purse could be seen.
Silver and gold all jumbled
Offering a handful of treasure,
Calling in his gilded voice,
“Come hither, oh maiden, to me.”
The maiden silently shook her head,
Displeased, he took his leave.
Alas, lofty love,
No vast wealth would she have.
Spring breezes so fragrant, flowers blossoming
Accompanied by the lute of the bubbling spring.
Unawares in the wooded glade,
There came a man called “Love.”
His eyes overflowing with emotion,
Sincerity o’erspilling his heart,
He gently whispered,
“Come hither, oh maiden, to me.”
The maiden smiling, nodded.
Breast embraced breast.
Ah true love
Only true love would she have.
Chapter 2
BEGINNINGS
By the end of the nineteenth century, the movement for a literature that examined contemporary concerns and that could be written in the vernacular had come to occupy a more central place in the literary world of Japan. The range of styles and subject matter used during this period was wide. Some writers, now increasingly distanced from the past, began to write more objectively about the Tokugawa period, which had ended some forty or fifty years earlier. Others, who wished to pay homage to the literary accomplishments of the past, tried casting these traditions in a new way, using elements of the old methods of storytelling to which they added contemporary language and a new emphasis on psychological depth. Still other writers, often termed “naturalists,” attempted to capture the inner lives of their own times. More often than not, they turned, in what they took to be their honesty, to the unseemly, even sordid, aspects of contemporary personal and social life, often in quasi-autobiographical narratives. In examining those same social difficulties of the period, yet another group of writers sought out larger reasons behind the ills to which they bore witness. It was from such beginnings that writers interested in socialism or Marxism developed.
The influence of foreign literature, often used as putative models, continued to be important. For Natsume Sōseki, who lived in London as an advanced student, it was the traditions of English fiction; for Nagai Kafū and Shimazaki Tōson, both of whom spent time in France, it was the French poetic and literary tradition; and for Mori Ōgai, after his years in Germany, it was the German romantics and, later, the German avant-garde of the early twentieth century. Increasingly skillful translations of a greater variety of literature continued to appear in Japanese. By the end of the first decade of the twentieth century, Chekhov, Tolstoy, Goethe, and Shakespeare were widely read and appreciated.
Along with the influence of foreign literature during this period, there was an intense interest in Christianity, perceived to represent a deeper set of beliefs believed by some to be the fuel for the engines of Western culture. A number of writers adopted these values, at least for part of their creative lives, and still today, some important Japanese writers hold Christian beliefs. On the whole, however, by the time of World War I this early idealistic enthusiasm among writers and intellectuals had shifted toward seeking out and supporting systems of social change, ranging from agricultural reform to socialism and Marxism.
The period from the turn of the twentieth century to World War I can be termed chronologically as the true beginning of what was known at the time as “modern Japanese literature.” In the work of its best and most representative writers, those years remain a high point seldom surpassed.
FICTION
IZUMI KYŌKA
Izumi Kyōka (1873–1939) remains even today a popular figure for his tales, as well as for the theatrical dramatizations made from them, which often draw on the macabre, even the mystical, for their effect. Kyōka’s “The Holy Man of Mount Kōya” (Koya hijiri, 1900) is a striking example of his abilities to mix the occult and the erotic, using traditional elements in Japanese storytelling to produce new psychological effects.
THE HOLY MAN OF MOUNT KŌYA (KŌYA HIJIRI)
Translated by Charles Shirō Inouye
1
“I knew it wouldn’t do much good to take another look. But because the road had become unimaginably difficult, I lifted the sleeves of my kimono, made hot to the touch by the sun’s rays, and reached in for the ordinance survey map that I had brought with me.
“There I was on an isolated byway, making my way through the deep mountains between Hida and Shinshū. Not a single tree offered the comfort of its shade; and on both sides were nothing but mountains, rising so close and so steeply that it seemed as though I could reach out and touch them with my hand. Despite the towering heights of these mountains, there rose still others beyond them, each raising its crest above the next, blocking both bird and cloud from sight.
“Between earth and sky, I stood alone, the crystalline rays of the blistering midday sun falling white around me as I surveyed the map from beneath the brim of my sedge hat.”
Saying this, the itinerant monk clenched both fists, placed them on his pillow, bent forward, then pressed his forehead against his hands. We had become traveling companions in Nagoya. And now, as we were about to retire for the night in Tsuruga, it occurred to me that he had maintained this humility with perfect consistency and that he had shown none of the airs of the self-righteous.
I remembered how we met on the train. I was traveling west on the main line that connects the cities of the Pacific coast when he got on at Kakegawa. He sat at the end of the car with his head bowed, and because he showed no more life than cold ashes, I paid him little attention. But then the train reached Nagoya, and everyone else got off at once, as if by previous arrangement, leaving only the monk and myself to share the coach.
The train had departed from Tokyo at nine-thirty the night before and was scheduled to arrive in Tsuruga that evening. Since it was noon when we reached Nagoya, I purchased from the station vendor a small box lunch of sushi, which happened to be what the monk also bought. I eagerly removed the lid, only to find bits of seaweed scattered on top of the vinegar-flavored rice. I immediately knew that my lunch was sushi of the cheapest sort.
“Nothing but carrots and gourd shavings,” I blurted out. The monk, seeing the look on my face, couldn’t help but chuckle.
Since we were the only two passengers in the car, we naturally began a conversation. Although he belonged to a different sect, he told me that he was on his way to visit someone at Eiheiji, the great Zen monastery in Echizen, and planned to spend the night in Tsuruga. I was returning home to Wakasa; and because I also had to stop over in the same town, we decided to become traveling partners.
He told me he was affiliated with Mount Kōya, headquarters of the Shingon sect. My guess was that he was about forty-five or -six. He seemed a gentle, ordinary, likable sort. Modestly dressed, he wore a woolen traveling cloak with ample sleeves, a white flannel scarf, a pillbox hat, and knitted gloves. On his feet he had white socks and low, wooden clogs. Though a man of the cloth, he looked more like a poetry master or perhaps someone of even more worldly interests.
“So where will you spend the night?” His question prompted a deep sigh from my lips as I contemplated the drearier aspects of staying alone in a strange place: the maids who doze off with their serving trays still in hand; the hollow flattery of desk clerks; the way everyone stares at you whenever you leave your room and walk the halls; and, worst of all, how they snuff out the candles as soon as dinner is over and order you to bed in the dim shadows of lantern light. I’m the sort who doesn’t fall asleep easily, and I can’t begin to describe the lonelin
ess of being abandoned like that in my room. And now that the nights had gotten longer, ever since leaving Tokyo I had been preoccupied with how I was going to make it through that night in Tsuruga. I suggested to the monk that if it was no bother, we might spend the night together.
He nodded cheerfully and added that whenever he traveled through the North Country he always rested his walking staff at a place called the Katoriya. Apparently the Katoriya had been a travelers’ inn until the proprietor’s only daughter, well liked by all who knew her, suddenly died. After that, the family took down their shingle and, though no longer in business, were always willing to accommodate old friends. For such people, the elderly couple still provided family-like hospitality. The monk suggested that if such a situation were agreeable to me, we would be welcome there. “But,” he started to say, then paused for dramatic effect, “the only thing you might get for dinner is carrots and gourd shavings.” With that, he burst into laughter. Despite his modest appearance, the monk had quite a sense of humor.
2
In Gifu, the sky was still clear and blue, but once we entered the North Country, famous for its inclement weather, things began changing. Maibara and Nagahama were slightly overcast—the sun’s rays penetrated the clouds only weakly, and a chill seeped into my bones. But by the time we reached Yanagase, it started to rain. As my window grew steadily darker, the rain mixed with something white. “It’s snowing.”
“So it is,” the monk said, not even bothering to look up at the sky. If he found the snow uninteresting, neither was he concerned with the ancient battleground at Shizugatake or the scenery at Lake Biwa. As I pointed them out, he only nodded.
We neared Tsuruga, and I prepared myself for the annoying, or should I say frightening, tenacity of the solicitors who lie in wait at the station for potential customers. As I expected, they were there in droves, waiting for us to step off the train. They lined the road that led away from the station, forming an impenetrable wall around the travelers. As they closed in on us with their lanterns and umbrellas, all emblazoned with the names of the inns they represented, they called out and demanded we stay the night with them. The more brazen ones even snatched up people’s luggage and shouted out, “Thanks! This way, please!” No doubt, those suffering headaches would have found their heads pounding because of this intolerable behavior. But as always, the monk kept his head bowed and calmly slipped unnoticed through the crowd. No one bothered to stop him, and luckily, I followed right behind, emitting a sigh of relief once the station was behind us.
The storm showed no signs of letting up. No longer sleet, its dry, light flakes brushed my face as they fell. Though it was still early in the evening, the people of Tsuruga had already bolted their doors for the night, leaving the streets deserted and quiet. Finally, we cut across two or three wide intersections, then walked for another eight blocks through the accumulating snow until we stopped beneath the eaves of an inn. We had arrived at the Katoriya.
The alcove and sitting room had no decoration to speak of. But the pillars were impressive, the tatami new, and the hearth spacious. The pot hook dangling over the hearth was decorated with a wooden carp so lustrous I wondered if it were made of gold. Set into the earthen oven were two huge pots, each big enough to cook half a bushel of rice. It was a solid old house.
The master of the inn was a short-cropped, hard-to-read sort of fellow, who had a habit of keeping his hands tucked inside his cotton jacket even when sitting in front of a brazier. His wife, in contrast, was charming, the kind of person who says all the right things. She laughed cheerfully when my companion told the story about carrots and gourd shavings and prepared a meal of two kinds of dried fish and miso soup with bits of seaweed. I could tell by the way she and her husband acted that they had known the monk for a long time. Because of their friendship, I felt very much at home.
Eventually we were taken to our beds on the second floor. The ceiling was low, but the beams were huge unmilled logs, two armspans in diameter. The roof slanted down at an angle so you had to be careful not to bump your head on the ceiling where the roof met the walls along the edges of the room. Still, it was comforting to know that even if an avalanche came tumbling down the mountain behind us, it would not disturb such a sturdily built structure.
I jumped right into bed, happy to see that our bed warmer had already been prepared for the night. In order to make the most of the heated coals, our bedding had been laid out at right angles so we could both take advantage of the warmer. The monk, however, pulled his futon around beside mine, intending to sleep without the comfort of the smoldering fire.
When he finally got into bed, he didn’t even bother to remove his sash, much less his robe. Still fully dressed, he curled himself into a ball and quickly backed, feet first, into his bedding. As soon as his arms found the sleeves in his upper quilt, he pressed his hands to the mattress beneath him and lowered himself onto his pillow. Unlike you or me, the holy man slept facedown.
Before long, he stopped stirring and seemed to be falling asleep. As I had told him many times in the train, I find it hard to get to sleep before the night grows late; and so I asked him, begging like a child, to take pity on me and tell me about some of the interesting things he had experienced on his many pilgrimages.
He nodded and added that since middle age he had always slept facedown, but he was still wide-awake. Like me, he too had difficulty falling asleep. “So you want to hear a story? Then listen to what I’m about to tell you,” he said. “And remember that what you hear from a monk isn’t always a lecture or a sermon.” It was only later that I learned he was none other than the renowned and revered Monk Shucho of the Rikumin Temple.
3
“The owners of this inn mentioned that someone else might join us here tonight,” the monk began. “A man from Wakasa, same as you. He travels around and sells lacquerware. He’s young, but I know him to be a good, serious fellow, quite unlike a young man I once met when making my way through the mountains of Hida. This other person was a Toyama medicine peddler whom I happened to run into at a teahouse in the foothills. What a disagreeable, difficult fellow!”
I intended to make it all the way to the pass that day, and I had set out from my inn at about three o’clock in the morning. I covered fifteen miles or more while it was still cool. But by the time I made it to the teahouse, the morning mist had burned off, and it was starting to get hot.
I had pushed myself at a fast pace, and my throat was as parched as the road beneath my feet. I wanted to get something to drink right away but was told the kettle wasn’t boiling yet.
Of course, there was no reason to expect the teahouse to be ready for business, since so few pass by on such mountain paths. In a place as isolated as that, smoke from the hearth rarely rises while the morning-glory blossoms are still open. As I waited, I noticed an inviting brook running in front of the stool on which I had taken a seat. I was about to scoop up a handful of water from a bucket nearby when something occurred to me.
Disease spreads quickly in the summer months, and I had just seen powdered lime sprinkled over the ground at the village called Tsuji.
“Excuse me,” I called to the girl in the teahouse. I felt a bit awkward asking but forced myself to inquire. “Is this water from your well?”
“It’s from the river,” she said.
Her answer alarmed me. “Down the mountain I saw signs of an epidemic,” I said. “I was just wondering if this brook comes from over by Tsuji.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she replied simply, as though I had nothing to worry about.
I should have been happy to hear her answer, but listen—someone else was already at the teahouse. The young medicine peddler I just mentioned had been resting there for quite some time. He was one of those vulgar pill salesmen. You’ve seen them dressed in an unlined, striped kimono, a cheap sash, and the obligatory gold watch dangling in front. Leggings and breeches, straw sandals, a square medicine chest tied to the back with a pale yellowish green cot
ton cloth. Add an umbrella or an oilskin slicker, folded up and tied to the pack with a flat Sanada string, and there you have it, the typical traveling salesman.
They all look the same—that serious, knowing look on their faces. But as soon as they get to their lodgings for the night, they change into loud, large-patterned robes. And with their sashes loosely tied, they sip cheap wine and try to get their feet onto the maids’ soft laps.
“Hey, Baldy,” he called, insulting me from the very start. “Forgive me for asking this, but I need to know something. Here you are. You know you’re never going to make it with the ladies, so you shave your head and become a monk, right? So why worry about dying? That’s a little odd, don’t you think? The truth is, you’re no better than the rest of us. Just as I thought. Take a look at him, miss. That man’s still attached to this floating world.” The two looked at each other and burst into laughter.
I was a young man at that time, and my face burned red with shame. I froze there with the scoop of water still in my hands.
“What are you waiting for? Go ahead, drink till you drown. If you come down with something, I’ll give you some of my medicine. That’s why I’m here. Right, miss? It’s going to cost you, though. My Mankintan’s three sen a packet. It may be ‘the gift of the gods.’ But if you want it, you buy it. I haven’t done anything bad enough to make me want to give it away. But maybe we can fix that. How about it, girl? Maybe I should have my way with you.” He patted the young woman on the back.
I was shocked by the man’s lewd behavior and quickly got away from there. Of course, someone of my age and profession has no business going on about the seduction of teahouse maids, but since it’s an important part of the story . . .
