by Неизвестный
Soon I heard her standing immediately in front of my chair, and without giving any warning she suddenly burst into laughter. The very next moment I could hear her flapping her arms like a fish struggling in a net, and then she sat down—on me! For a period of about thirty minutes she continued to sing, moving her body and feet in tempo with her melody.
For me this was quite an unexpected development, for I had always held aloof from all members of the opposite sex because of my ugly face. Now I realized that I was present in the same room with a European girl whom I had never seen, my skin virtually touching hers through a thin layer of leather.
Unaware of my presence, she continued to act with unreserved freedom, doing as she pleased. Inside the chair, I could visualize myself hugging her, kissing her snowy white neck—if only I could remove that layer of leather. . . .
Following this somewhat unhallowed but nevertheless enjoyable experience, I forgot all about my original intentions of committing robbery. Instead, I seemed to be plunging headlong into a new whirlpool of maddening pleasure.
Long I pondered: “Maybe I was destined to enjoy this type of existence.” Gradually the truth seemed to dawn on me. For those who were as ugly and as shunned as myself, it was assuredly wiser to enjoy life inside a chair. For in this strange, dark world I could hear and touch all desirable creatures.
Love in a chair! This may seem altogether too fantastic. Only one who has actually experienced it will be able to vouch for the thrills and the joys it provides. Of course, it is a strange sort of love, limited to the senses of touch, hearing, and smell, a love burning in a world of darkness.
Believe it or not, many of the events that take place in this world are beyond full understanding. In the beginning I had intended only to perpetrate a series of robberies and then flee. Now, however, I became so attached to my “quarters” that I adjusted them more and more to permanent living.
In my nocturnal prowlings I always took the greatest of precautions, watching each step I took, hardly making a sound. Hence there was little danger of being detected. When I recall, however, that I spent several months inside the chair without being discovered even once, it indeed surprises even me.
For the better part of each day I remained inside the chair, sitting like a contortionist with my arms folded and knees bent. As a consequence I felt as if my whole body were paralyzed. Furthermore, as I could never stand up straight, my muscles became taut and inflexible, and gradually I began to crawl instead of walk to the washroom. What a madman I was! Even in the face of all these sufferings I could not persuade myself to abandon my folly and leave that weird world of sensuous pleasure.
In the hotel, although there were several guests who stayed for a month or even two, making the place their home, there was always a constant inflow of new guests and an equal exodus of the old. As a result, I could never manage to enjoy a permanent love. Even now, as I bring back to mind all my “love affairs,” I can recall nothing but the touch of warm flesh.
Some of the women possessed the firm bodies of ponies; others seemed to have the slimy bodies of snakes; and still others had bodies composed of nothing but fat, giving them the bounce of a rubber ball. There were also the unusual exceptions who seemed to have bodies made only of sheer muscle, like artistic Greek statues. But notwithstanding the species or types, one and all had a special magnetic allure quite distinctive from the others, and I was perpetually shifting the object of my passions.
At one time, for example, an internationally famous dancer came to Japan and happened to stay at this same hotel. Although she sat in my chair only on one single occasion, the contact of her smooth, soft flesh against my own afforded me a hitherto unknown thrill. So divine was the touch of her body that I felt inspired to a state of positive exaltation. On this occasion, instead of my carnal instincts being aroused, I simply felt like a gifted artist being caressed by the magic wand of a fairy.
Strange, eerie episodes followed in rapid succession. However, as space prohibits, I shall refrain from giving a detailed description of each and every case. Instead, I shall continue to outline the general course of events.
One day, several months following my arrival at the hotel, there suddenly occurred an unexpected change in the shape of my destiny. For some reason, the foreign proprietor of the hotel was forced to leave for his homeland, and as a result the management was transferred to Japanese hands.
Originating from this change in proprietorship, a new policy was adopted, calling for a drastic retrenchment in expenditures, the abolishment of luxurious fittings, and other steps to increase profits through economy. One of the first results of this new policy was that the management put all the extravagant furnishings of the hotel up for auction. Included in the list of items for sale was my chair.
When I learned of this new development, I immediately felt the greatest of disappointments. Soon, however, a voice inside me advised that I should return to the natural world outside—and spend the tidy sum I had acquired by stealing. I of course realized that I would no longer have to return to my humble life as a craftsman, for actually I was comparatively wealthy. The thought of my new role in society seemed to overcome my disappointment in having to leave the hotel. Also, when I reflected deeply on all the pleasures which I had derived there, I was forced to admit that although my “love affairs” had been many, they had all been with foreign women and that somehow something had always been lacking.
I then realized fully and deeply that as a Japanese I really craved a lover of my own kind. While I was turning these thoughts over in my mind, my chair—with me still in it—was sent to a furniture store to be sold at an auction. Maybe this time, I told myself, the chair will be purchased by a Japanese and kept in a Japanese home. With my fingers crossed, I decided to be patient and to continue with my existence in the chair a while longer.
Although I suffered for two or three days in my chair while it stood in front of the furniture store, eventually it came up for sale and was promptly purchased. This, fortunately, was because of the excellent workmanship which had gone into its making, and although it was no longer new, it still had a “dignified bearing.”
The purchaser was a high-ranking official who lived in Tokyo. When I was being transferred from the furniture store to the man’s palatial residence, the bouncing and vibrating of the vehicle almost killed me. I gritted my teeth and bore up bravely, however, comforted by the thought that at last I had been bought by a Japanese.
Inside his house I was placed in a spacious Western-style study. One thing about the room which gave me the greatest of satisfactions was the fact that my chair was meant more for the use of his young and attractive wife than for his own.
Within a month I had come to be with the wife constantly, united with her as one, so to speak. With the exception of the dining and sleeping hours, her soft body was always seated on my knees for the simple reason that she was engaged in a deep-thinking task.
You have no idea how much I loved this lady! She was the first Japanese woman with whom I had ever come into such close contact, and moreover she possessed a wonderfully appealing body. She seemed the answer to all my prayers! Compared with this, all my other “affairs” with the various women in the hotel seemed like childish flirtations, nothing more.
Proof of the mad love which I now cherished for this intellectual lady was found in the fact that I longed to hold her every moment of the time. When she was away, even for a fleeting moment, I waited for her return, like a love-crazed Romeo yearning for his Juliet. Such feelings I had never hitherto experienced.
Gradually I came to want to convey my feelings to her . . . somehow. I tried vainly to carry out my purpose but always encountered a blank wall, for I was absolutely helpless. Oh, how I longed to have her reciprocate my love! Yes, you may consider this the confession of a madman, for I was mad—madly in love with her!
But how could I signal to her? If I revealed myself, the shock of the discovery would immediately prompt her to ca
ll her husband and the servants. And that, of course, would be fatal to me, for exposure would not only mean disgrace but severe punishment for the crimes I had committed.
I therefore decided on another course of action, namely, to add in every way to her comfort and thus awaken in her a natural love for—the chair. As she was a true artist, I somehow felt confident that her natural love of beauty would guide her in the direction I desired. And as for myself, I was willing to find pure contentment in her love even for a material object, for I could find solace in the belief that her delicate feelings of love for even a mere chair were powerful enough to penetrate to the creature that dwelled inside . . . which was myself!
In every way I endeavored to make her more comfortable every time she placed her weight on my chair. Whenever she became tired from sitting long in one position on my humble person, I would slowly move my knees and embrace her more warmly, making her more snug. And when she dozed off to sleep, I would move my knees ever so softly to rock her into a deeper slumber.
Somehow, possibly by a miracle (or was it just my imagination?) this lady now seemed to love my chair deeply, for every time she sat down, she acted like a baby falling into a mother’s embrace or a girl surrendering herself into the arms of her lover. And when she moved herself about in the chair, I felt that she was feeling an almost amorous joy. In this way, the fire of my love and passion rose into a leaping flame that could never be extinguished, and I finally reached a stage where I simply had to make a strange, bold plea.
Ultimately I began to feel that if she would just look at me, even for a brief passing moment, I could die with the deepest contentment.
No doubt, Madam, by this time you must certainly have guessed who the object of my mad passion is. To put it explicitly, she happens to be none other than yourself, Madam! Ever since your husband brought the chair from that furniture store, I have been suffering excruciating pains because of my mad love and longing for you. I am but a worm . . . a loathsome creature.
I have but one request. Could you meet me once, just once? I will ask nothing further of you. I, of course, do not deserve your sympathy, for I have always been nothing but a villain, unworthy even to touch the soles of your feet. But if you will grant me this one request, just out of compassion, my gratitude will be eternal.
Last night I stole out of your residence to write this confession because even leaving aside the danger, I did not possess the courage to meet you suddenly face to face, without any warning or preparation.
While you are reading this letter, I will be roaming around your house with bated breath. If you will agree to my request, please place your handkerchief on the pot of flowers that stands outside your window. At this signal, I will open your front door and enter as a humble visitor. . . .
Thus ended the letter.
Even before Yoshiko had read many pages, some premonition of evil had caused her to become deadly pale. Rising unconsciously, she had fled from the study, from that chair upon which she had been seated, and had sought sanctuary in one of the Japanese rooms of her house.
For a moment it had been her intention to stop reading and tear up the eerie message, but somehow she had read on, with the closely written sheets laid on a low desk.
Now that she had finished, her premonition was proved correct. That chair on which she had sat from day to day . . . had it really contained a man? If true, what a horrible experience she had unknowingly undergone! A sudden chill came over her, as if ice water had been poured down her back, and the shivers that followed seemed never to stop.
Like one in a trance, she gazed into space. Should she examine the chair? But how could she possibly steel herself for such a horrible ordeal? Even though the chair might now be empty, what about the filthy remains, such as the food and other necessary items which he must have used?
“Madam, a letter for you.”
With a start, she looked up and found her maid standing at the doorway with an envelope in her hand.
In a daze, Yoshiko took the envelope and stifled a scream. Horror of horrors! It was another message from the same man! Again, her name was written in that same familiar scrawl.
For a long while she hesitated, wondering whether she should open it. At last she mustered up enough courage to break the seal and, shakingly took out the pages. This second communication was short and curt, and it contained another breathtaking surprise.
Forgive my boldness in addressing another message to you. To begin with, I merely happen to be one of your ardent admirers. The manuscript which I submitted to you under separate cover was based on pure imagination and my knowledge that you had recently bought that chair. It is a sample of my own humble attempts at fictional writing. If you would kindly comment on it, I shall know no greater satisfaction.
For personal reasons I submitted my MS prior to writing this letter of explanation, and I assume you have already read it. How did you find it? If, Madam, you have found it amusing or entertaining in some degree, I shall feel that my literary efforts have not been wasted.
Although I purposely refrained from telling you in the MS, I intend to give my story the title of “The Human Chair.”
With all my deepest respects
and sincere wishes, I remain,
Cordially yours,
. . .
HORI TATSUO
Hori Tatsuo (1904–1963) wrote his prose novels and stories in an elegant style matching his poetic temperament. He was a sophisticated admirer of the works of such French masters as Proust and Radiguet. In addition, Rilke’s poetry and prose were a particular inspiration, as were the classics of Japan’s Heian period (794–1185). Not surprisingly, because Hori often was sick with a recurring lung ailment, many of his works deal with themes of love and death. His most celebrated effort, The Wind Has Risen (Kaze tachinu), written between 1936 and 1938, beautifully captures the lyricism of his writing.
THE WIND HAS RISEN (KAZE TACHINU)
Translated by Francis B. Tenny
Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre! (The wind has risen; we must try to live)
—Paul Valéry, Le Cimetière marin (The Graveyard by the Sea)
Prologue
Day after summer day I lay in the lush meadow of pampas grass under the shade of a white birch while you stood nearby, absorbed in your painting. When evening came and you finished your work, you came to my side. Our hands on each other’s shoulders, we gazed at the far horizon overlaid with towering clumps of clouds edged in red. Turning finally from the darkening horizon, we felt something quickening there in the opposite direction.
One of those near-autumn afternoons, with your painting propped on its easel, we sprawled and nibbled fruit in the shade of that birch. Clouds like drifting sand slipped smoothly through the sky. Suddenly came a breeze from nowhere. Through the leaves overhead we could see deep blue patches, swelling and shrinking. We heard a plop onto the grass, like something toppling, the painting and the easel failing to the ground. You started up to set it right, but I held you back, not to lose the moment. You did not leave. You let me do it.
The wind has risen. Now we must try to live.1
The line of poetry that sprang from my lips I repeated to myself, my hand resting on the shoulder you leaned against me. You pulled yourself away at last and stood up. Blades of grass clung to the still-wet canvas. You set the painting on the easel, and at some pains you removed the grass with your palette knife. “Oh! If father could only see this place . . .”
You spoke, turning toward me with a doubtful smile.
“Father will be here in two or three days.”
You spoke suddenly one morning as we strolled in the woods. I said nothing but showed my displeasure. You looked at me there and spoke again, huskily.
“Well, then we won’t be able to take these walks, will we?”
“Any walk at all. If we think we want to walk, we can walk.”
Still disgruntled, I felt your anxious glance over my head, but it seemed rather that so
mething stirring in the treetops above had drawn your attention.
“Father never leaves me.”
I looked back at you in irritation.
“Are you saying we have to separate?”
“It can’t be helped.”
You managed a smile and seemed to close the subject. The color of your face, the color even of your lips, turned pale!
“Why have you changed so much? You seemed to trust me in everything. . . .” I mused on wearily, letting you walk ahead through the bare roots twisting across the narrow mountain path. I followed as best I could. The trees were thick all about and the air became chilly. Little marshy places encroached here and there. A thought flashed suddenly through my head. Because you were so meek with me, whom you had chanced to meet only this summer, wouldn’t you have entrusted yourself completely to one like your father, especially your father, who forever controlled everything about you? . . . “Setsuko! if you’re like that, I love you even more. When my prospects in life are firmly established, I must go and ask for your hand. Until then it’s good that you remain as you are with your father. . . .” Saying this to myself, I took your hand quickly as if to get your agreement. You left your hand in mine. Hand in hand we stopped at a marshy place. The sun’s light shone through countless branches, through crosshatched holes in the shrubbery below and down at last to the bottommost undergrowth of ferns in the marsh where we silently stared, our hearts aching, at the barely perceptible trembling from a gentle breeze in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees.
