A Dark Night's Passing

by Naoya Shiga

  He liked his story less and less as it developed. It seemed to him to become particularly contrived after the heroine’s journey to Hokkaidō. Besides, he found telling a story from a woman’s point of view, which he had never attempted before, far more difficult than he had imagined.

  Spiritually and physically he began to feel exhausted; and together with the exhaustion came loneliness. That time in Onomichi when he received the letter from Nobuyuki telling him about his birth, he had been almost overwhelmed by shock and depression; but then at least he had had something to fight against; there had been in him the tension that came from the will to survive an immediate threat. Now his soul was like the wooden foundation of a house that rots slowly as the damp from the ground seeps deeper and deeper into it.

  His loneliness was something he could not reason away. He tried to pull himself together by turning his mind to the goal he had set for himself, which was to play some part in the making of mankind’s happiness, to leave some mark on the path of human progress, and so realize the life of the artist. But his mind seemed incapable of pulling itself out of the mire of depression. “Blessed are the poor in spirit”—so said the Christians. If the words “poor in spirit” were meant to describe his condition, then the saying was a very cruel one. That his condition could in any way be described as “blessed” was inconceivable to him. If a Christian minister had at that moment appeared and said to him, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Kensaku would have hit him. It seemed to him that nothing was more abject than this poverty of the spirit. And “poverty” was the word that aptly described his state: “loneliness,” “sorrow,” “pain”—such words seemed to him inadequate. What greater misery was there, he wondered, than to be so destitute, to feel that one’s spirit had no resources left?

  This sense of destitution—it was as much a physiological phenomenon as anything else—had already been present in him when he went to Onomichi. He had had temporary relief from it when the truth about his birth was divulged to him. The shock had acted as a stimulant. But in the end the effect of the sudden discovery about himself was to aggravate his condition and make him even more vulnerable than before to attacks of depression.

  Nobuyuki visited him from time to time. Kensaku felt a growing fondness for him, and came to look forward to his visits. He particularly enjoyed listening to his Zen stories. The story of how Chu-chih would hold up a single finger to show the essence of Zen, of Nanch’uan and the cat he put to the sword, of Shih-kung and the arrow, of how Te-shan achieved satori at Lung-t’an’s place, and those stories about Po-chang, Kuei-shan, Huang-po, Mu-chou, Lin-chi, P’u-hua—all these appealed deeply to his susceptible mind. And each time he heard the words, “Thus in an instant was there enlightenment,” he would feel like crying. Once, on hearing the story of Te-shan and the bowl, he did burst into tears. It was not only the story’s content that so moved his destitute spirit, but its artistry.

  Seeing Kensaku’s emotional response to these stories, Nobuyuki would sometimes suggest gently that he come to Kamakura. But Kensaku was never tempted. He had nothing against Zen; but it distressed him to imagine himself sitting humbly at the feet of some smug Zen priest. If ever he reached the point of wanting to go to a temple, he thought, he would much rather go to Mt. Kōya or Mt. Hiei.

  When he had written about forty manuscript sheets he found that he could go no further with the story. How could anyone in his condition hope to articulate successfully on paper, to make real to the reader whatever was on his mind?

  Several weeks of restless inactivity and loneliness had passed. It was a nasty day, with a hot, humid wind blowing. He ate his lunch, then feeling heavy and sluggish, immediately lay down in the morning room and read without much interest a few pages of a translation of a European novel. Oei sat near him, sewing. He turned to her and said, “By the way, when would be a good day to let Yoshi go to see the South Seas Exhibition?” He had received a postcard that morning from a friend named Masumoto saying that Miyamoto was fascinated by the native dancers in the exhibition and had already gone to see them several times.

  “Any day is all right as far as I’m concerned. Is she going alone, or are you asking someone to take her?”

  “She can go alone, don’t you think?” he said, then immediately wondered if she could manage the trip by herself. He wondered, too, when she should be given her day off. Both questions threw him in a quandary. He had never liked making decisions on simple, practical matters; but of late he had become increasingly fearful of such decisions, as though once made they were bound to bring trouble. He knew that this fearfulness had no rational basis, that it was a kind of sickness, but it made no difference. “I might as well take her myself this afternoon,” he said.

  “But isn’t your brother supposed to be coming today?”

  “Perhaps he did say something of the sort the last time he was here. Or perhaps I’m just imagining he said it.” He was greatly relieved that his tentative proposal to accompany Yoshi to the exhibition was not to be put to the test.

  The train from Yokosuka that Nobuyuki would be on if he was coming was due to arrive at seven minutes past three. It was now three o’clock. Kensaku thought he would go out and see if he could meet his brother on his way to the house. It would be something to do. He put on a light outer kimono and picked up his pocket watch and wallet. If Nobuyuki appeared, then the rest of the day would be occupied. If he didn’t, Kensaku was not sure what he would do. At least, that was what he told himself. A vague plan had actually been formulated at the back of his mind, but he did not acknowledge its presence; for if he did, he would almost certainly end up rejecting it. “I’m going out for a little while. I’ll be back shortly with Nobuyuki if I see him. If I don’t, I shall probably be home by dinner time.”

  He did not see Nobuyuki. As he walked through the Kashimadani neighborhood he heard the train that Nobuyuki would have been on roar past on its way to Tokyo. He could not see it from where he stood, but it shook the very ground under him. At Ōmori Station he discovered that he would have to wait half an hour for the next train to Shinbashi. He went outside again and caught a suburban-line streetcar going to Shinagawa.

  He pulled out a small edition of Saikaku’s works and began reading the last episode of Twenty Instances of Filial Impiety. Two or three days before, Oei had asked him which Japanese novelist he thought was “great,” and he had answered, “A man named Saikaku.” He had just finished reading the first two episodes of the same work, and had been thoroughly impressed. There was such relentlessness in the man, a single-mindedness that was almost obsessive. To maintain that mood of cruelty without a touch of introspection was a feat that Kensaku himself could not hope to accomplish even in a work of pure fiction. Even if he could write one made-up tale after another examining the various ways in which children could be ungrateful and disloyal toward their parents, he could not pursue the subject with such force and single-minded consistency.

  That Kensaku, immersed as he was then in futile, self-punishing introspection, should so admire and envy Saikaku’s audacity and detachment was not surprising. How much more bearable life would be, he thought, if he could learn to look at the world as Saikaku did.

  It was true, however, that none of the stories he now read—this time he was reading them in reverse order, the last episode first—could compare with the first two.

  In Shinagawa he transferred to the city line. By then he had tired of reading. He looked about at the passengers seated around him. His eyes came to rest on the man directly opposite. The thought struck him that he resembled one of those grotesque portraits by Sharaku. As it turned out, the man was not unique; for after careful scrutiny every other passenger seemed uncannily to remind Kensaku of a Sharaku face.

  As the streetcar approached Satsumatsubara Junction, Kensaku momentarily felt the desire to get off and visit the house in Hongō. He had not seen Sakiko and Taeko for a long time. But he stayed on the streetcar; for the prospect of seeing his father was no
t inviting, and there was the possibility that Sakiko would find his visit awkward. He then thought of paying Miyamoto or Masumoto a visit. This time again he quickly changed his mind. He had the strange premonition that neither would be in; besides, given his present state of mind, there was always the danger of his doing or saying something disagreeable. Even if he did manage to behave properly, the strain of having consciously to suppress the misery within him so that it would not spill out in another’s presence would be unbearable. He pictured himself, a pathetic, defeated figure leaving the scene after the ordeal, and he could not help feeling that he really had nowhere to go. Except, of course, there was that place which had been lurking at the back of his mind since he decided to come out that afternoon. There he would be under no restraint. And that was where his feet would take him. He looked at the passengers around him again. Not one of them, he was sure, looked as pathetic as he. At least, their blood flowed energetically in their veins; there was a sparkle in their eyes. But his own blood, he felt, was tepid, muddy liquid moving slowly and tiredly around his body; and his eyes were like those of a dead fish, dull and cloudy white.

  14

  The small woman said she was just having her hair done when she was called. Her abundant hair was lightly pulled together behind her neck with a hairpin. On the hairpin was a red stone. Showing her profile she said, “Like a Korean woman, don’t you think?” It was still daylight, but the electric light hanging from the ceiling was on. The room was terribly stuffy, despite the wind that could be heard blowing outside.

  The small woman talked incessantly. She seemed nervous; perhaps she was waiting for him to go.

  Kensaku stood up. As he was about to leave the room, the small woman raised her hand smartly and said, “See you again!” Kensaku tentatively returned the salute, then went down the stairs. A young woman sat in the front hall. She was a pretty woman, with an air about her that pleased him.

  He walked toward the streetcar stop thinking that at this rate he would be home before dark. He wondered why that woman whom he had just seen was sitting in such a public place. Presumably she was waiting to go to a customer. But why wait in the front hall? If he visited the house again, he would no doubt ask for her. And they would want to know whom he meant. What would he tell them? There were no distinguishing characteristics that he could remember. “The good-looking one who was sitting downstairs,” he would say. “Was she tall or short, sir?” “Can’t say.” “Was she plump?” “She wasn’t thin.” He wouldn’t get very far that way. Why not go back and try to find her now? He would regret it later if he didn’t. If he met her on the street on his way back there, all he had to say was that he had left something behind. He turned around and walked back to the house.

  He stood in the doorway and spoke to the maid. “The woman I saw sitting there, was she waiting to go to a customer?”

  The maid understood immediately. “The customer has another woman with him now. The one you want will soon be going up to take her place. But she won’t be long, so come in.”

  “Let her come to me first.”

  The maid grimaced. “As I said, she won’t be long.”

  He went in, and as he passed the room beside the front hall he saw the woman standing behind the half-open door. She had heard the conversation obviously. He pretended not to see her and went up the stairs. Once in the room he decided to try again to get the woman immediately. He called the maid and said to her, “Let the fellow have someone else.” He kept his voice low, for the man was in the next room.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. He asked for her specifically. I’m afraid he saw her when he came in.”

  “It’s a damn nuisance,” he said, then fell into ill-tempered silence. For no good reason he had decided that the woman he wanted was not like the others. She was quiet, virtuous, and not vulgar—a sort of lady, in other words.

  He heard the first woman leave the next room. Then he heard the one he wanted going in. He felt he could not sit still. He called the maid again. Before he could say anything, she said soothingly, “She just went in. It won’t be long now.”

  “Bring me something to write with.”

  He had to do something to keep his mind off what was happening in the next room. When the maid had brought him a brush and an inkstone, he got out a sheet of paper he had with him and laid it out on the tea table. He dipped the brush in the ink, took a deep breath and proceeded to write: “The Bodhisattva Kannon looks upon all sentient beings with compassion/ And the blessings that accrue for them are as limitless as the ocean.” He wrote no more; for the thought occurred to him that it was sacrilegious to write such words in so disreputable a place.

  The woman came in smiling. She looked pleasant enough, but she was certainly not the woman he thought he had seen. She sat down not quite opposite him and gave a slight bow. “Thank you for calling me,” she said, looking at him. There was nothing at all ladylike in her deportment. She was just an ordinary prostitute.

  “How long have you been in this business?”

  “For about two months.” She sounded defensive.

  “How old are you—twenty?”

  “No, nineteen.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” She seemed to be affecting a Kyoto accent.

  He pulled her toward him and made her sit on his lap. She was absolutely docile. Wearily she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  “Would you like to go on a trip with me?” he asked.

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere far away.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m not joking, you know.”

  “Nor am I,” she mumbled. She was about to fall asleep.

  “Hey!” he said, shaking her by the shoulder.

  “Right!” she answered loudly, sticking her plump, white chin out in front of his nose.

  “You obviously think I’m fooling. You’re too stupid to see that I’m serious.”

  “Yes, I’m stupid.” She sat up and gazed down at his face.

  Her manner became a little more earnest, and she began to talk about herself. She had been a prostitute for six months, not two. She had a mother, but her elder sister and brother-in-law were taking care of her, so all she had to do was send her sister a little money every month.

  “What does your brother-in-law do?”

  She thought for a while, then said, “He has a soybean shop,” and burst out laughing. Kensaku did not know whether to believe her or not.

  Seventy yen was all she owed her employer, she said. If Kensaku were to pay that modest debt, she would be free to go anywhere. For some reason she persisted in affecting a Kyoto accent. Whether it was this affectation, the purpose of which was obscure, or sheer illiteracy that led her to mispronounce words, Kensaku was not sure.

  “Do you like Kyoto?” he asked, and was greeted with an enthusiastic response.

  He left shortly thereafter, having made no firm promises, and went immediately home.

  The next day, as evening approached, he again became restless. Oei was already cooking the dinner, but unable to sit still and wait even for that he rushed outside. That day, too, Nobuyuki had failed to come. Kensaku was sure he had gone straight to the house in Hongō, deliberately avoiding him. And though he tried to tell himself it was his twisted mind that gave him such ideas, he could not help feeling hurt and insulted. He had always been inclined to suspect others of harboring ill will toward him. Earlier, it had not been so difficult to dismiss his own suspicions as mere figments of his perverted imagination. But since the discovery about his birth he had begun to ask if the others had not always known about it, and seeing some ugly spirit standing behind him had not always wanted to look away. And had he not dimly sensed their aversion and in retaliation displayed his own mistrust of them?

  It seemed to him these days that everyone who came near him was a potential source of humiliation for him. Why, he could not say. He simply felt that way about everyone. And the only path o
f escape he could think of was to uproot himself entirely from his present surroundings. Like a man with a dual personality he would beget a new identity. He would become someone who did not know this man Tokitō Kensaku, someone who did not remember who he had been before the transformation. How easy life would be then!

  He would find a world where the very air he breathed was different. He would live at the foot of some great mountain, among peasants who knew nothing. And if he could live apart even from them, all the better. His wife would be an ordinary, loyal woman with an ugly, pockmarked face. The woman he had met the day before would be far too pretty for the role of a recluse’s wife. Yet if she were someone tormented by a sinful past she would make an ideal partner. The two of them would live out their lives in somber humility, acknowledging and accepting each other’s misery. The scorn or pity of others would not touch them in their remote hiding place. If some laughed at them it would not matter, for they would not hear the laughter. They would in time cease to exist in other people’s minds, as others would cease to exist in theirs. How good it would be to live and eventually die in that condition—forgotten, unknown, untouched by the outer world!

  When he got off the train at Shinbashi Station he went to a telephone booth to call Masumoto. “I came across Miyamoto,” Masumoto had written in his postcard to Kensaku, “two days ago in front of Mitsukoshi, and he told me you had moved out of the city. I want to call on you at your new house, so let me know what day would be best.” It was Kensaku’s intention now to see if Masumoto was at home, and if he was, to pay him a visit. But as he waited for the operator to answer he began to wonder if he really did want to see Masumoto. No, he decided, and quickly put the receiver down.