by Неизвестный
The mass lasted for nearly an hour. As it was ending, I saw the woman take out a handkerchief and hold it to her face. I did not understand why she did that. The mass finally ended and the priest, without turning toward the parishioners, withdrew to a small room at the side. The woman remained unmoving. I alone left the church.
It was a light cloudy day. The snow was melting in the village as I walked around with no particular objective but with a continuing feeling of dissatisfaction. I wandered into the field with the white birch conspicuous at the center, where I had often accompanied you when you went to paint. In fond memory I reached out to touch the tree, its base still buried in leftover snow, and I stood there until my fingers began to freeze. However, I could scarcely revive the memory of your appearance at that time. Finally I wandered off, indescribably lonely as I walked through the bare-branched trees straight up the valley and back to my cabin.
Panting breathlessly, I sat down on the floor boards of the veranda. Suddenly in my fretful state I felt you close to me. Pretending not to notice, I rested my chin on my hands. You were livelier than ever before—indeed, so lively that I thought I could feel your hand on my shoulder.
“Dinner is ready.”
The young woman from the village had been awaiting my return there in the cabin, and she called me to my dinner. Returning to reality and feeling that I would have liked to be left to myself a little longer, I entered the house with an unusually gloomy expression. Without saying a word to the girl, I sat down alone as usual to my meal.
Near evening and still feeling irritated, I sent the girl home. A little later I regretted my actions and I went casually out onto the veranda. Then, just as before (but this time without you) I gazed down the snow-covered valley, where I noticed someone coming slowly up the valley through the trees in my direction, looking this way and that. I wondered where the man was going as I continued to stare, and it was the priest looking for my cabin.
DECEMBER 14
Yesterday evening I visited the church, as I had promised the priest. The church would close tomorrow and he would be leaving at once for Matsumoto, the priest told me while from time to time giving instructions to the caretaker, who was packing things up. He had hoped to gain a convert in this village, and he kept reflecting on how much he regretted leaving the place. I recalled immediately the middle-aged, German-looking woman I had seen yesterday in the church. I started to ask the priest about her, but he seemed to misunderstand, and I sensed that maybe he was talking about me.
Our strange conversation was running at cross-purposes, and it stumbled to a stop. We sat there in silence beside the overly hot fire and looked out the window at the little tatters of clouds flying past in the bright windy but wintry sky.
“Such a beautiful sky you wouldn’t see except on such a cold and windy day,” the priest said casually.
“Yes, truly, without a cold day and a wind like this,” I parroted him, feeling his casually spoken words oddly touch my heart.
After being with the priest for about an hour, I started for home, where I received a small package. Rilke’s “Requiem,” which I had ordered long ago, was among two or three volumes that had arrived after being forwarded around with several address tags attached.
That evening when I was ready for bed, I settled down by the hearth, and as I listened to the sound of the wind, I began to read Rilke’s “Requiem.”
DECEMBER 17
Still snowing. Since morning it has continued with hardly a break. Before my eyes as I watched, the valley has become all white again. We are in the depths of winter. All day today I have stayed by the hearth, going occasionally to the window to look carelessly at the snow-filled valley, then returning to the hearth to continue reading “Requiem.” I felt so strongly how it resembled the regret in my timid heart that I had not stopped seeking you, that even now I could not leave you quietly in your death.
I have my dead, and I have let them go,
and was amazed to see them so contented,
so soon at home in being dead, so cheerful,
so unlike their reputation. Only you
return; brush past me, loiter, try to knock
against something, so that the sound reveals
your presence. Oh don’t take from me what I
am slowly learning. I am sure you have gone astray
if you are moved to homesickness for anything
in this dimension. We transform these things;
they aren’t real, they are only the reflections
upon the polished surface of our being.3
DECEMBER 18
Because the snow had finally stopped, I now went deep, deep into the woods behind, where I had never been before. I proceeded pleasurably through one grove after another, bathed occasionally by a splash of falling snow dropping with a sudden thud from a tree somewhere. There was, of course, no trace of any person’s steps, although here and there were the tracks of a rabbit jumping around. The trail of a pheasant crossed my path in a straight line.
Wherever I went, the woods were without end, while snow clouds spread widely overhead. I despaired of going farther, therefore, and I turned back. I seemed to have lost my way, and I could not find my tracks. As I walked rapidly and helplessly through the snow, I came out anyway in an area of woods that seemed promising for my cabin. I sensed behind me surely the footsteps of another. The sound was almost inaudible.
Without turning to took back, I hurried down through the woods. I said to myself with a heart-wrenching feeling the last lines of the “Requiem,” which I had finished reading yesterday.
Do not return. If you can bear to, stay
dead with the dead. The dead have their own tasks.
But help me, if you can without distraction,
as what is farthest sometimes helps: in me.4
DECEMBER 24
Evening. I was invited to the village girl’s home for a lonely Christmas. In winter this mountain village is empty of people, but because it is crowded with foreigners in the summer, even in ordinary village homes they seem to enjoy imitating that life.
About 9 o’clock I returned home from the village through the shadowy valley lit by the snow. Passing through the last of the bare trees, I noticed a lone, dim gleam of light from somewhere falling on a snow-covered thicket by the side of the road. I wondered why a light would be shining here, but as I looked around the narrow valley of scattered villas, I saw that only one house was lighted. I recognized it as surely mine up there at the head of the valley. “I live up there all by myself, don’t I?” I thought as I walked up the valley. “I hadn’t noticed that the light from my cabin could be seen through the woods this far down the valley. Look,” I said to myself, “all the scattered points of light in the snow-covered valley are from the light of my cabin.”
When I finally reached the cabin, I stood on the veranda and looked again to see how much the light of my cabin illuminated the whole valley. On looking, I saw that the light reached only a little way beyond the cabin. As you got farther from the cabin, the little light gradually dimmed and merged into the snowlight of the valley.
“When looked at here, that light that you can see so well from down there is nothing more than this,” I said to myself glumly. As I continued to stare vacantly at the shadows from this light, a thought suddenly occurred to me. “This light and shadow, isn’t it just like my life? The lights surrounding my life are no more than this, I thought, but like the light reflected from my hut, aren’t there many more lights to my life, too? Without my being aware of it, haven’t they led me to survive? . . .”
This unexpected thought rooted me there on the veranda in the light of the snow.
DECEMBER 30
It was truly a quiet evening. This night, too, I let these thoughts drift as they would through my heart.
“If I’m not happier than most, I’m not unhappier, either. Whatever is this thing called happiness we used to fret so much about? Now when I think I am forgetting, I can f
orget completely. For me now, though, I may be close to the state of happiness. Whatever you call them, my feelings are a little sadder—yet they are not without some pleasure. The fact that I can live so casually like this may be because I live alone, not mixing with the world. That I can do this with humility, though, is all thanks to you. Still, Setsuko, I haven’t once thought I was living alone like this for your sake. I think only that I am following my own will, doing what I like. Or if by chance I am doing it for you after all, the more I think I am doing it for myself, doesn’t that mean I am accustomed to a love that is more than I deserve? Aren’t you giving me your love without seeking anything from me?”
As I thought along like this, I stood up as if something had occurred to me, and I went out onto the veranda. I stood there on the veranda as always. I could hear the wind howling incessantly from far away, apparently from the opposite direction to the valley. I continued standing there, my ears bent to the distant wind as if I had come out here on the veranda deliberately to listen to it. The whole valley spread out before me was visible at first as one expanse of faintly lit snow. But as I watched unconsciously and my eyes became accustomed, lines and shapes appeared slowly one by one, perhaps supplied unwittingly by my own memory. I had become so familiar with it—what people call the “Valley of Happiness”—that because I had become accustomed to living there, I, too, thought it right to call it by this name. Just here—it’s so quiet—although on the opposite side of the valley, the wind is howling. Behind the cabin I hear an occasional small grating noise, but that may be the rubbing together of bare tree branches caused by the wind from afar. Leftover gusts of wind are blowing a few leaves around, making a weak rustling noise at my feet.
INAGAKI TARUHO
Inagaki Taruho (1900–1977) was a protégé of the novelist Sato Haruō. A writer of modernist fables, Inagaki sprinkled his various writings with references to his admiration for the Dadaists, Apollinaire, and the fanciful films of the early French silent film director Georges Méliès. The following excerpts from Inagaki’s collection One-Thousand-and-One-Second Stories (Issen ichibyō monogatari), which appeared in various editions and with varying contents from 1923 to 1936, reveal some of his imagination, charm, and fantasy.
ONE-THOUSAND-AND-ONE-SECOND STORIES (ISSEN ICHIBYŌ MONOGATARI)
Translated by Tricia Vita
The Man Who Came from the Moon
I was listening to the strains of a guitar escape through a yellow window in a painting of the night when I heard the uncoiling spring of a clock From across the way a magnificent dioramic Mr. Moon arose.
It halted at a spot one meter off the ground whereupon a man appeared from within wearing an opera hat and nimbly leapt out Wow! While I was watching he lit a cigarette and walked along the boulevard As I followed him the shadows of trees cast fascinating patterns on the pavement
In the instant that my attention was diverted that man walking just ahead of me disappeared I listened intently but could hear nothing resembling the sound of footsteps Returning to the place where I started before I knew it Mr. Moon was climbing high as the pinwheels spinned and flittered in the evening breeze
On Finding a Star
One night in the shadow of a large dark house a lovely luminous object had fallen Only the eye of the blue gas lamp glinted on the far corner of the street and so I picked it up As soon as it was in my pocket I hurried home On the way I looked at it carefully beneath an electric light A star had fallen from the sky and died What?! It’s a piece of junk! I threw it out the window
On Friday evening I went into a hat shop where the figure of a young man selecting a necktie was reflected in a big mirror on the far wall At that moment he was also looking in the mirror My eyes locked on his eyes The young man brashly drew near Over my shoulder he said
“Hey”
Without even looking his way I answered “Yeah?”
He began “Remember Wednesday night?”
“And what about it?” I replied
“Not a thing!” the young man looked menacing as he shouted All I heard was the glass door screech open when I was sent flying onto the asphalt of the city streets
The Rock Throwing Affair
“So you’re hanging around here tonight too huh?”
I flung a rock . . . chink!
“Oww Hey you!”
Mr. Moon jumped down and gave chase I escaped by vaulting a hedge
crossing a flower bed and leaping a stream I ran for my life An express train whistled and roared by just as I was about to cut across the tracks Thrown into confusion I was grabbed from behind Mr. Moon banged my head up against a telephone pole When I came round a white mist was hovering over the fields In the distance the red eye of a signal light was weeping As soon as I’d risen to my feet I looked up and shook my fist though Mr. Moon pretended not to notice When I got home my whole body ached I was feverish
At that time in the morning when the streets turned pink I stepped outdoors for a breath of fresh air when from the other side of the crossroads someone I remembered having seen before walked over to me
“How are you feeling? I must apologize for my conduct last night” he said
Pondering his identity I made my way home where on the table a bottle of peppermint potion awaited me
On Scuffling with a Shooting Star
One night on my way home from the opera as my car was rounding a corner it collided with a shooting star
“Get out of my way!” I yelled
“Your steering is terrible!” the shooting star yelled back
We scuffled and rolled around My silk hat got crushed A gas lamp got bent A poplar snapped I pinned down the shooting star The shooting star sprang back up knocking my head against the curb
It was after two o’clock by the time the police helped me to my feet and I got home Straightaway I checked the bullets in my pistol and climbed up to the roof I hid in the shadow of the chimney and waited After a little while that shooting star passed overhead with a whoosh! I took aim Bang! The shooting star traced an arc in the misty moonlight and dropped through a glass roof in the distance
I bounded down the stairs turned off the lights and went to bed
How My Harmonica Was Filched
One evening I stepped out the front door and met in a head-on collision with a shooting star
I was amazed when no one was there
I strolled beneath the sycamores while I gave it some thought Then I wasn’t sure whether or not it had been a shooting star But the impact of the collision had knocked my hat off Upon inspecting the hat I found that it was daubed with dust I ran toward the house As soon as I rushed into my room I opened the table drawer My harmonica was gone
Overheard One Night in the Shadows of a Warehouse
“So Mr. Moon came out”
“That guy’s made of tin”
“What? Did you say tin?”
“Yes sirree At any rate it’s nickel plating”
(That’s all I overheard)
The Moon and a Cigarette
One night on my way home from the cinema I hurled a rock
That rock went over a chimney and struck Mr. Moon as he was singing a song The waning Mr. Moon’s tail end chipped off He flushed red with anger
“Now put me back together!”
“I’m truly sorry I beg your pardon” “It’s unpardonable”
“For heaven’s sake!”
“No! Put me back together!”
Mr. Moon looked unforgiving but in the end he traded his forgiveness for a cigarette
On Brawling with Mr. Moon
One evening on my way home from the cinema I stopped in at a café where at a corner table a big ball of a fellow was drinking a beer
“What! I thought something was odd this evening
You’re already two hours late If everyone knew you were out drinking at a place like this you’d get a good thrashing”
As I said this the ball-shaped fellow got into a huff and retorted
“You think you can get away with it that easily?”
“Whether I can or can’t it’s you who’d better get out of here”
“What did you say . . . ?”
“You got any complaints?”
I left it at that and was heading for the door All of a sudden a beer bottle came flying at me from behind
It was reflected in the mirror over the counter and so I ducked as it whizzed overhead The bottle hit the mirror Crrashh!
“You sneak!”
“And you’re a no-good punk!”
“Such a wise guy Mr. Moon”
“All right Come on!”
“Let’s have a go at it!”
Mr. Moon pulled a dagger I hurled a chair Mr. Moon’s gang and my pals tussled and tumbled about Somebody switched off the lights In the pitch darkness . . . a chair flew a curtain fell down a flowerpot got shattered I landed a kick in Mr. Moon’s side and sent him flying Mr. Moon knocked my legs out from under me Somebody was swinging a table around and the corner of it struck my head While I was staggering to my feet Mr. Moon took flight I drew my six-shooter and fired bang bang! But Mr. Moon got away
