The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by Неизвестный

  MAN: It’s a goodwill visit, isn’t it?

  WOMAN: I just had to meet you.

  WIFE: My, what a sweet thing to say. Another cup of tea? (Offering tea.)

  WOMAN: Thank you.

  MAN: In that case, whatever questions you have, or whatever requests, please just tell us. It is our established policy never to disappoint anyone who has come so far. Why are we so healthy in spite of growing old? Why are we so cheerful? So full of humor? Why, though we aren’t rich, are we not unnecessarily frugal? How can we be both progressive and conservative at the same time? Why are we such good citizens? Why, to sum it all up, are we us?

  WIFE: Go ahead and ask your questions. He will certainly answer them well, whatever they are about, I’m sure.

  WOMAN: Thank you. But for right now it’s enough just to be allowed to sit here this way.

  MAN: Don’t you have at least one of these “questions”? There are usually three questions for every person.

  WIFE: And three for me, too.

  MAN: And you know the answers already anyway, right?

  WOMAN: Really, I . . . just to be sitting here and you have even served me a warm cup of tea. . . .

  WIFE: Ah, of course. This lady is interested in the domestic environment . . . our home’s unique domestic environment.

  MAN: I see. I understand. This so-called family atmosphere takes some doing. Now, the first thing you can’t do without for that homey feel is a cat. Second, a fireplace, or something of the kind. Things like whiskey or home-brewed saké, like detective stories or fairy tales, knitting needles and wool yarn, or torn socks and gloves, and, to top it off, some reading glasses . . . right? We used to have a cat, too, but he seems to have disappeared recently. . . .

  WIFE: If you’d given us a little notice that you were coming, we could have borrowed one from the neighbor. . . .

  WOMAN: Please, never mind about that. I’m happy just to be here, in a warm place, with such kind people, quietly drinking tea. It’s very cold outside. It’s snowing. No one is out there.

  MAN: I can well believe that. It’s supposed to snow tonight. Did you walk all the way?

  WOMAN: Yes, all the way . . .

  WIFE: Poor thing. You must be hungry. Please help yourself to whatever you’d like.

  MAN: We always like to help those less fortunate as much as we can. That’s our way. . . .

  WOMAN’S VOICE (from no particular direction): The little girl was hungry now. She was shaking from the cold as she walked. The snow came drifting down on the back of her neck, to fall among the beautiful curls of her long golden hair. But from every window the light was shining, and there was the strong and savory smell of a goose roasting.

  That was as it should be, the little girl was thinking. It was, after all, New Year’s Eve. There was a small space between two houses. She drew her body into that corner and crouched down there, pulling her little feet under her. Even so, she could not escape the cold. . . .

  WIFE (in a small voice): Dear, I think that this lady has something she’d like to say to us.

  MAN: Is that so? Well then, please don’t hesitate. For that matter . . . well . . . if you’d prefer, I could leave. I know that, as they say, women feel more comfortable talking to one another. . . . (Beginning to stand.)

  WOMAN: No, please. Don’t go. This is fine. Really. Just this, just sitting here quietly like this is fine. I’m perfectly happy this way.

  WIFE: Well, if you say so. But you went to a lot of trouble to come here, and we’ll feel bad if we don’t do anything for you.

  MAN: Right. We wouldn’t want you to think we were so insensitive.

  WOMAN: No, really, I wouldn’t think anything like that. . . .

  WIFE: Ah, well, isn’t there something you’d like to eat? If there is, I’d be happy to fix it for you.

  WOMAN: Thank you, but not just now.

  MAN: Well, just as she says . . . that’s fine. She has just arrived, dear, and probably doesn’t feel like asking questions or giving orders yet. That’s what it is. It’s better just to leave her alone. You know what they say about excessive kindness . . . now what is it they say? . . .

  WIFE: Maybe you’re right. (To the woman.) Just make yourself comfortable. We’re not in any hurry.

  WOMAN: Thank you.

  MAN: But, please don’t hesitate . . .

  WOMAN: Yes . . . well . . .

  WIFE: As if it were your own home . . .

  WOMAN: Yes.

  Man starts to say something, and then stops. There is an awkward silence. man (suddenly thinking of something to say): Outside . . . was it snowing?

  WOMAN (nods).

  WIFE (eagerly pursuing the thought): Powdered . . . snow?

  WOMAN: Yes . . . (Nods.)

  Silence.

  MAN (again thinking): You’re tired . . . aren’t you?

  WOMAN: No.

  MAN (to his wife): But she must be tired. Why don’t you ask her to lie down for a little while? . . .

  WIFE: That’s a good idea. Why not do that?

  WOMAN: No, this is just fine.

  MAN: But . . .

  WOMAN: Really . . .

  WIFE: Well, whatever you think . . .

  There is another awkward silence.

  MAN: Say, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you sing her a song?

  WIFE: A song? I can’t sing . . . not me!

  MAN: “Not me?” Did you hear that? She’s just being shy. Or too modest. I shouldn’t brag about my own wife, but her singing is something to hear. Come on, sing something for her?

  WIFE: I can’t do that.

  MAN: Of course you can. She’d like to hear it, too. Right? Wouldn’t you like to hear her sing something?

  WOMAN: Yes . . . but . . .

  MAN: See! Don’t be so shy. Go ahead and sing. After all, she has taken the trouble to come. (To the woman.) She’s not much good at anything else . . . just singing. But she’s not bad at it. She’s rather good.

  WIFE: I don’t have a good voice any more . . . at my age.

  MAN: At your age? . . . Listen to that. Just yesterday she was saying that she could still sing pretty well in spite of her age, because she has always taken care of her voice. . . .

  WIFE: But I just meant . . . for in the family . . .

  MAN: In the family, outside the family, what’s the difference? Go ahead and sing. Try that song . . . “The snow is . . . (Trying to remember.) The snow is . . . (Thinking.) The snow is getting deeper . . . no keeps getting deeper. . . .”

  WOMAN (quietly): I was selling matches. . . .

  WIFE: What?

  WOMAN: I was selling matches.

  WIFE: My, did you hear that, dear?

  MAN: What’s that?

  WIFE: She’s selling matches.

  MAN: Matches? Ah, I see! Yes . . . I understand . . . finally. About buying matches. Well, it would have been better to have said so sooner, but . . . you went to City Hall to examine the city directory to find the household most in need of matches and that was us. That’s what it is! Fine. I can understand that. And we’ll buy them. Buy them all. I don’t know if you’ve got a truckload . . . maybe two but we’ll buy them all. Here and now. I promise.

  WIFE: But we just bought matches. Far too many. Of course, since she took the trouble to come, we should buy some. Yes, let’s buy some. But we can’t use many.

  WOMAN: No, that’s not it. I was selling matches a long time ago.

  MAN: Ah, a long time ago. . . .

  WIFE: Then what are you selling now? If it’s something useful around the house, we’ll buy some. You’ve gone to so much trouble.

  MAN: That’s right. Even if it’s a little expensive. . . .

  WOMAN: Nothing in particular right now. . . .

  MAN: Nothing? . . .

  WOMAN: That’s right.

  WIFE (a little disappointed): Oh . . . well . . .

  MAN: Ah . . . I see. You were telling us a story about something you remember from when you were small. . . .

  WOMAN:
Yes, that’s it.

  WIFE: About selling matches? . . .

  WOMAN: Yes.

  MAN: How old were you?

  WOMAN: I was seven. . . .

  WIFE: It was terrible, wasn’t it?

  MAN: And you can’t help remembering. . . .

  WOMAN: Well, really, until just recently, I didn’t understand it.

  MAN: You didn’t understand? . . .

  WOMAN: It was twenty years ago.

  WIFE: You don’t say . . .

  MAN: And you had forgotten about it?

  WOMAN: I didn’t understand. Until just recently, I didn’t understand at all. I was married and had two children. One, a boy, is four years old. The other, a girl, is barely two. So far as the girl is concerned, everything is fine, but a fouryear-old boy requires a lot of attention.

  WIFE: Isn’t that the truth!

  MAN: A boy of four can take care of himself.

  WIFE: Nonsense!

  WOMAN: People say that two children are too many at my age. But I don’t feel that way.

  MAN: You’re right. Two is normal.

  WIFE: They say you haven’t really done your duty till you’ve had three.

  MAN: Well, where are those children?

  WOMAN: Don’t worry about that.

  MAN: Ah . . .

  WIFE: Are they healthy?

  WOMAN: Yes, quite healthy. . . .

  MAN: That’s good.

  WIFE: That’s the important thing . . . for children to be healthy.

  WOMAN: Then I read in a book. . . .

  WIFE: In a book? . . . My . . .

  MAN: A child-care book?

  WOMAN: No . . . fiction. . . .

  MAN: Ah, that’s good. When a woman gets married and has children, she usually quits reading books. Especially fiction.

  WIFE: What was it about?

  WOMAN: Various things.

  MAN: Various things, indeed. Those writers of fiction write about all kinds of things, don’t they?

  WOMAN: Among other things, about a match girl. At first I didn’t understand it. I read it again. Then I had a strange feeling.

  MAN: Strange?

  WOMAN: Yes. After that I read it many times, over and over. . . .

  WIFE: About how many times?

  WOMAN: Five . . . or more. . . .

  MAN: Then? . . .

  WOMAN: Then I saw it. I was amazed. It was about me.

  WIFE: About you? . . .

  WOMAN: Yes.

  MAN: It was written about you?

  WOMAN: That’s right. I hadn’t understood.

  WIFE: About selling matches? . . .

  MAN:. . . about the little match girl? . . .

  WOMAN: Yes. It was about me. I was the little match girl.

  WIFE: My goodness . . . that one? . . .

  MAN: But . . .

  WOMAN: After that I remembered many things. Many things gradually became clear. . . .

  MAN’S VOICE (low, in a murmur): People were starving then. Every night was dark and gloomy. The town was built on swampland, sprawling and stinking. Here and there shops had been set up, like sores that had burst open. Small animals were killed in the shadows, and secretly eaten. People walked furtively, like forgotten criminals, and now and then, unexpectedly, something would scurry by in the darkness.

  That child was selling matches at the street corner. When a match was struck, she would lift her shabby skirt for display until the match went out. People made anxious by the small crimes they had committed, people who could not even commit such crimes, night after night, in their trembling fingers, would strike those matches. Directed at the infinite darkness hidden by that skirt, how many times that small light had burned, until it had burned out. . . .

  Those two thin legs held a darkness as profound as that of the depths of the sea, darker than all the darkness of that city floating on a swampland gathered together. As she stood there above that darkness, the little girl smiled aimlessly, or seemed empty and sad.

  WIFE: Isn’t there someone at the door?

  MAN: Nonsense! In this cold? Aren’t you cold?

  WOMAN: No.

  MAN: But then, how about that? Seeing yourself revealed in a story gives you a strange feeling, doesn’t it?

  WOMAN: Yes, very strange. After that I thought about it for a long time. I had suffered greatly. But there is still one thing I can’t understand.

  WIFE: One thing? . . .

  MAN: What?

  WOMAN: Why did I do a thing like that?

  MAN: A thing like that?

  WOMAN: Yes.

  WIFE: Selling matches?

  WOMAN: Yes.

  WIFE: Well. . . .

  MAN: Wasn’t it because you were poor? I don’t mean to be rude, but . . .

  WOMAN: Still, to do that kind of thing. . . .

  WIFE: You shouldn’t be ashamed of that. Everyone did such things then. Those who didn’t, didn’t survive. Children stole things. After I had worked so hard to make hotcakes for his birthday, they stole them. It was like that then.

  MAN: You should forget the things from that time. Everyone has forgotten. I’ve forgotten, too.

  WOMAN: But I want you to think back, to recall those memories.

  WIFE: Well, even if you try, there are some things you can’t forget. But what good does it do to remember?

  MAN: I had to do such things, too. Just as you did, I tried to sell things as a peddler. It’s not that important. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Really.

  WOMAN: But how could I ever have thought of doing such a thing? I was only seven years old. Could a child of seven think of that kind of thing?

  WIFE: That kind of thing? . . .

  WOMAN: That kind of . . . of terrible thing. . . .

  MAN: . . . what kind of? . . .

  WOMAN: I was selling matches.

  MAN: Yes, selling matches . . . you were selling matches. . . .

  WOMAN: . . . and while they were burning . . .

  MAN: . . . impossible. . . .

  WOMAN: No, it’s not.

  MAN: I can’t believe it. . . .

  WOMAN: But that’s the way it was. It was me. I was the little match girl. . . .

  WIFE: Ah, . . . you were the one. . . .

  WOMAN: Yes, do you remember? That time? . . . that place? . . .

  A pause.

  MAN: But, well, all kinds of things happened then.

  WIFE: That’s true. All kinds of things. It was very different from now. No one knew what to do. It wasn’t your fault.

  MAN: It’s nothing to worry about. That was all over long ago. An old story. My philosophy is to forget it. Forget everything. Without exception! Everything. If you don’t . . . well, anyway . . . let life go on.

  WOMAN: But I can’t forget it.

  WIFE: Why?

  WOMAN: Because I have remembered.

  MAN: I see. Yes, there is such a time in life. Just be patient a while. You’ll soon forget. But, let’s stop talking about it. Say . . . I’ll make you forget in three minutes. Do you know the story of the kind weasel?

  Woman does not answer.

  MAN: How about fixing us another cup of tea, dear . . .

  WIFE: Fine, let me do that. It has gotten quite cold.

  Taking the pot, she leaves.

  WOMAN: Are Mother’s feet all right now?

  MAN: Mother . . . ah, you mean my wife? No, they still aren’t good, particularly when it gets cold. But I’m surprised that you know so much. Things like my wife’s trouble with her feet.

  WOMAN: I don’t mind forgetting that story, either.

  MAN: Please do. Just forget it. It happened twenty years ago.

  WOMAN: But I would still like to know one thing.

  MAN: What?

  WOMAN: I’m sure that someone must have taught me to.

  MAN: To what?

  WOMAN: To do such a thing . . .

  MAN: Ah well, that’s probably true. No doubt.

  WOMAN: Was it you?

  MAN: What?

  WOMAN
: Were you the one who taught me to?

  MAN: Me?

  WOMAN: Yes.

  MAN: Me?

  WOMAN: Yes.

  MAN: Me? . . .

  WOMAN: Yes.

  MAN: . . . why would I have?

  WOMAN: Don’t you remember?

  MAN: What?

  WOMAN: Don’t you remember me?

  MAN: Remember you?

  WOMAN: I’m your daughter.

  MAN: You? . . .

  WOMAN: Yes.

  MAN: Impossible.

  WOMAN: There’s no doubt about it. I’ve made inquiries. That’s what they told me at City Hall, too. It’s the truth.

  MAN: It can’t be. It’s not possible. I don’t have a daughter. We did have a daughter . . . but she died. She is dead.

  WOMAN: I don’t blame you for making me do that kind of thing. I don’t bear a grudge. But I would just like to know. That’s all. Why was I doing that? If someone taught me to, who was it? I . . . if I thought of something like that all by myself, when I was just seven years old. . . . I can’t believe that . . . that would be frightening. Absolutely frightening! I’d just like to know why. It bothers me so much that I can’t sleep at night.

  MAN: But it wasn’t me. My daughter is dead. She was run over by a streetcar. I saw it . . . my daughter . . . right in front of my eyes . . . run over and killed. I’m not lying to you. My daughter is dead.

  WOMAN: Father . . .

  MAN: Stop it. Please stop it. Your story is wrong. You have things confused somehow. That’s it. A misunderstanding. Such things often happen. But a mistake is still a mistake.

  The wife appears, carrying a pot of tea.

  WIFE: What’s going on, dear?

  MAN: Well . . . a little surprise . . . she has just claimed that she is our daughter.

  WIFE: Oh, my! Really?

  WOMAN: It’s true.

  MAN: Don’t be ridiculous! Our daughter is dead. Our daughter was run over by a streetcar and killed.

  WIFE: That’s true. But if she were living she would be just about this girl’s age.

  WOMAN: I am living. It is true!

  MAN: But I saw it happen. I . . . with these eyes . . . right in front of me . . . very close.

  WOMAN: I checked on that at City Hall, too.

  WIFE: At City Hall?

  MAN: Still . . .

  WIFE: But, dear, who can say for sure that she isn’t our daughter?

  MAN: I can!

  WIFE: Why?