by Ivan Morris
I was entirely alone. Forgetting that you were beside me, I seemed to be encompassing my own soul. Why did I fall into such a helpless solitude at a moment when the secret front, as it were, of our love was formed, when it gave promise of being exquisitely fruitful for both of us?
That night you determined to deceive everyone in the world. Could you dream of deceiving me? I never excepted you. I would deceive all the living creatures in the world, including you and even myself. That would be my life. The thought kept burning, flickering in the bottom of my solitary soul like an elfin flame.
I had to cut off my attachment to Kadota, which was not to be distinguished from love or hatred. I could never forgive Kadota’s inconstancy, no matter what sort of weakness may have been the cause of it. I thought I could be anything, could do anything, in order to cut it off. It beset me. I was seeking with all my being that which would extinguish my suffering. And the result! Nothing has changed since that night thirteen years ago.
“To love” and “to be loved.” What sad relationships! It was when I was in the second or third year of girls’ school. Our teacher of English grammar gave us a test in the active and passive voices. Among such words as “to beat” and “to be beaten,” “to see” and “to be seen,” there were those dazzling words “to love” and “to be loved.” As I got a grip on my pencil and prepared to answer, someone passed a note to me from behind. It consisted of two sentences:—“Do you want to love?” and “Do you want to be loved?”—and their respective answers. Underneath the sentence “I want to be loved” there were many circles in ink or blue or red pencil. Underneath the other sentence, “I want to love,” there was nothing. I was no exception and put a small circle under “I want to be loved.” Did we instinctively know the happiness of being loved even though we were only sixteen and could not know what it meant “to love” and “to be loved?”
Only the girl who sat next to me drew a large thick circle where there had been no mark. This she did with almost no hesitation. “I want to love.” I still remember how I hated her uncompromising attitude and at the same time how vulnerable I felt. She did not do very well in school and she was an unattractive girl with a melancholy manner. I have no way of knowing what became of her, that lonely girl with her dusty hair. Even now, more than twenty years later, her lonely look comes before me for reasons I cannot understand.
I wonder to whom, at the end of the way, God will give rest, the woman who enjoyed the happiness of being loved or the one who declared that she wanted to love, even though she may not have been rewarded with much happiness. Can any woman declare in the presence of God that she loved? Yes, there must be such women. That girl with the dusty hair may have become one of the elect. With disheveled hair and wounded body and torn clothes, she will raise her head triumphantly and say that she loved.
Oh, I hate it. I want to fly from it. But I cannot keep it away—the girl’s face that haunts me. What is this worry over my death, only a few hours ahead of me? It seems the proper reward for a woman who, to escape the pain of loving, sought the happiness of being loved.
I am sorry I have to write this to you after thirteen happy years.
The moment has come when the boat must burn to the water. The moment which I knew would come. I am too tired to live. I think I have finally told you what I really am—I have given the true picture of myself—as best I could. It is a life that lasts but fifteen or twenty minutes as you read my testament, but it is my real life, the life of your Ayako.
I would like to tell you only one thing more. Those thirteen years were like a dream. I was happy and wrapped in your expansive love, happier than anyone else in the world.
It was late at night when I finished reading the three letters to Misugi Jōsuké. Taking out Misugi’s letter to me, I read it again. Several times I reread the suggestive passage toward the end: “The fact is that I had been interested in hunting for several years. It had been a rather peaceful period in both my private and my public life, a contrast to the lonely life I lead now. Already by the time you saw me, the shotgun had become everything to me.” There was something unbearably sad in the neat array of letters. As Ayako had said, perhaps it was the serpent that lurked in the man Misugi.
I went to the north window of my study, where I looked out into the dark March night. Electric trains gave forth blue sparks in the distance. What were those three letters to Misugi? What did he learn from them? Was it not that he had learned nothing at all? That he was already aware of Midori’s serpent, and of Ayako’s serpent too?
With my face turned into the chilly night wind, I stood by the window, feeling slightly drunk. Putting my hands to the window frame, I looked into the wooded courtyard below, into Misugi’s “white river bed.”
TIGER-POET
BY Ton Nakajima
TRANSLATED BY Ivan Morris
Ton Nakajima (his given name may also be read Atsushi), who died in 1942 at the age of thirty-three, came from a family of Chinese scholars, and he himself had a thorough knowledge of classical Chinese. He was also a student of English, French, and German literature. After graduating from the Japanese Literature Department of Tokyo Imperial University, he became an official in the South Sea Islands Government Office. His best-known work, “Light, Wind, and Dream,” was published in the year of his death.
Nakajima’s short stories, which made him famous despite his short career, are marked by a wide erudition and a very individual type of fantasy that often brings to mind the work of Ryūnosuké Akutagawa and occasionally, as in the present story, of Franz Kafka. It is for his sense of literary style, however, that Nakajima is most respected: there is a terseness and a clarity about his language which undoubtedly reflect the strong influence of Chinese classical style.
Many of Nakajima’s best-known stories, including the present one, are set in the China of the distant past, with which he was so familiar from his reading. “Tiger-Poet” (Sangetsuki) was published in 1942, the year of the author’s death. It expresses in a rather original form the orthodox conception of karma, namely that an individual’s present lot is determined by behavior in previous existences.
Li Chêng’s poem is in the traditional Chinese style. It consists of eight lines of seven characters each, with the parts of speech in one line being roughly matched by the same parts of speech in the next line. The poem observes the strict conventions of classical composition but is artistically rather jejune. That a civil servant should aspire to become a poet may seem strange to some Western readers. In China, however, where the training for the senior civil-service examinations consisted almost entirely of literary studies, such an ambition would by no means be abnormal; nor would the ability of another civil servant to discern his friend’s poetic shortcomings.
LI CHÊNG was a man of great erudition. At an early age he passed the senior civil-service examinations with high distinction and his name was inscribed on the military list. Shortly thereafter he was made Captain of the Guards in the Lower Yangtze area.
He took up his appointment but, because of his proud and independent nature, soon began to chafe under the restrictions of his new post, which he scorned as unworthy of his talents. Since rapid promotion appeared unlikely, Li Chêng before long resigned from government service. He broke off relations with all his former friends and colleagues and retired with his family to his native town of Kuolüeh, resolved thenceforth to devote himself wholeheartedly to writing poetry. Rather than remain year after year as a subordinate official in the civil service, groveling before so-called superiors, would it not, he thought, be infinitely preferable to live the dignified, independent life of a man of letters and finally to bequeath his name to posterity as a great poet?
Alas, it requires more than determination to be a successful writer. Before long Li Chêng had exhausted his private means. Thereafter his days were a struggle with the exigencies of practical life. The handsome, round-cheeked youth who had so brilliantly passed the examinations into the senior civil service v
anished utterly and in his place appeared an emaciated man of harsh demeanor, in whose eyes could be seen the piercing, impatient look of one whose goal is constantly receding.
After some years he could no longer bear the grinding poverty to which the pursuit of poetry condemned him; he realized that he must swallow his pride and take a job which would at least provide him and his family with food and clothing. He applied to the Civil Service Board and in due course received an appointment as Assistant District Officer in an eastern province. By this time most of his former colleagues had risen to high posts, so Li Chêng now found himself in the galling situation of having to take orders from men who had passed the examinations far below him on the list, most of whom he had despised as boors and blockheads. The constant humiliation of his new role, following on his hard years as a poet, made Li Chêng increasingly morose and bitter, to the extent that he sometimes appeared to be verging on insanity.
A year after his re-entry into the civil service, he was ordered to travel to the south on official business. On his way, he stayed at an inn by the River Ju and here it was that he suddenly went mad. In the middle of the night he was heard to emit an incomprehensible scream. With distorted face and glaring eyes he jumped out of the window and, before anyone could stop him, rushed headlong into the dark. A search party was sent out the following morning, but, though they scoured the hills and fields in all directions, they could find no trace of Li Chêng. He did not reappear, and even his family was never to learn the strange fate that had befallen him.
In the following year, Yüan Ts’an, a Supervising Censor on the provincial circuit, was proceeding to the south on imperial orders and stopped for the night at Shangyii near the River Ju. He was about to set out next morning before dawn when the landlord warned him that a man-eating tiger had been seen on the road directly to the south.
“Travelers have been told to avoid the road by night,” said the landlord. “May I respectfully suggest that Your Honor wait until daybreak?”
“Thank you,” said Yüan Ts‘an, “but I have my brave men to guard me.” Without further ado, he mounted his horse and left the inn, followed by his retinue.
Shortly thereafter, they were making their way by the light of the moon through a thick grove. Suddenly a huge tiger leaped out of a thicket near the road and, roaring savagely, rushed at Yüan Ts’an. The beast was about to spring upon him when abruptly it turned and bounded back into the thicket.
For a moment no one spoke. Then from inside the thicket came a peculiar voice: “Great Heavens! That was close!”
Shaken though Yüan Ts‘an was, he instantly recognized the voice. “Surely that is the voice of my old friend Li Chêng, is it not?” he said.
Yüan Ts‘an and Li Chêng had taken their final examinations in the capital at the same time and had been close friends for many years. Only a man of Yüan Ts‘an’s mild temperament could have tolerated the harsh, self-willed Li Chêng.
For a long time there was no answer from the thicket, only a strange sound as of stifled sobbing. At last a rasping voice said: “Yes, I am indeed Li Chêng of Kuolüeh, whom once you knew.”
Forgetting all fear, Yüan Ts‘an dismounted and walked up to the thicket. “Come out of there, my old friend,” he said, “and let us converse for a while.”
“Alas,” answered the voice, “I am hideously transfigured! For very shame I cannot let you look at me again in my present form. I know that just to glance at me would fill you with horror and disgust. Yet now that we have met so strangely, I pray you to stay and talk, even though we are unable to see each other.”
When Yüan Ts‘an thought about it later, it all seemed impossibly weird but at the time he felt it to be almost normal, just as in one’s dreams one can accept without question the most preposterous events. He ordered his retinue to wait and, stationing himself boldly next to the thicket, began to talk to his invisible friend.
First he told him the news from the capital, the latest gossip about their former colleagues, and the circumstances of his own brilliant career. In a dolorous tone the voice from the thicket congratulated him on his promotions. After this there was a painful pause. Finally Yüan Ts‘an brought himself to ask: “And what has happened to you?”
From behind the tall shrubs, Li Chêng’s voice related the following tale:
“About a year ago I was dispatched to the south on some paltry errand. On my way I spent the night by the River Ju. I retired early and went to sleep almost at once, but after what seemed a short time, I was awakened by a strange voice outside calling my name. I got up, opened the window, and looked out. From the darkness the unknown voice summoned me, and an irresistible impulse caused me to obey.
“Without hesitation, I jumped out of the window and rushed off into the night, running as if in a delirium, heedless of direction. Before I knew it, I was on a path entering the woodland. To my surprise, I found that I was running with both hands on the ground; I seemed to be able to move much faster in this manner. As I ran, I felt a strange strength filling my body, and I sprang lightly over rocks and tree trunks. Then I noticed that thick hair had grown around my fingers, my arms and shoulders, in fact all over me. By now I had quite forgotten about the voice, but still I hurried on—running for the sake of running, as it were.
“When dawn began to break, I stopped by a mountain stream and looked into the clear water. At once I saw that I had become a full-fledged tiger. After my first shock, I realized with relief that this must be a dream. You see, I had often had dreams, especially nightmares, in which I had been perfectly aware that I was dreaming. But as the hours passed and dawn turned into full daylight, I finally had to admit to myself that I was wide awake. Now for the first time I was aghast and horror-struck. Most frightening of all was my feeling that the normal rules of life had broken down—that from now on anything might occur, however horrible.
“I crouched in the thick grass near a boulder and tried to think things out as clearly as I could. Why had this happened? I asked myself, but no answer sprang to mind. Pondering there beside the rock, the thought came to me that no one could ever be sure why things did happen to him. Were not all men controlled throughout their lives by forces of which they understood little or nothing? Wisdom lay in accepting this ultimate ignorance and in not fighting constantly against one’s fate, as I indeed had done. Now it was too late. My life as a human being had been a web of struggles and rebellions; enlightenment had come only when it could no longer be of use. I looked at my tiger-body and wished I could have died.
“Just then a hare ran past, a few yards from where I crouched. In a single instant all humanity left me. When human thoughts returned, I found that my mouth was stained with blood and that tufts of white fur were scattered round about. This was my first real experience as a tiger. The horrors and brutalities that I have committed every day since then I do not dare recount.
“Only for a few hours each day does the human spirit still return. At these times, I can speak as I am speaking to you now—can actually think out the most complicated thoughts. Yes, I can even recite to myself whole pages from the classics. Then also I remember the terrible things that I have done as a tiger; my ears echo with the screams of my victims and I am overcome with shame, fear, indignation at my animal nature.
“Yet as the weeks go by, these hours of human lucidity become fewer. Until recently I used to wonder how I could have turned into a tiger. Now the question that haunts me is a different one: how could I ever have been human? This is a terrible sign, is it not? Soon all memory of my past will have disappeared and such human spirit as still is left me will have vanished, like the foundations of some ancient palace finally covered over with earth and sand. Then I shall be nothing but a wild beast, the scourge of these forests, who, were he to meet you, Yüan Ts‘an, would tear you limb from limb and devour you without the slightest compunction…”
The voice dwindled off and for a while Yüan Ts‘an could hear only the sound of heavy panting. Then the
voice resumed, but in a more labored way:
“These days a certain thought keeps coming to me—not original, to be sure, yet never before fully understood by me. Were we not all of us—both animals and human beings—at one time something else? While young we may remember dimly our earlier existence, but as we grow accustomed to our present form, we fall under the illusion that we have always been as we are now.
“Well, be that as it may, such abstract notions will soon be foreign to my mind. In a way I shall no doubt be happier when my human side has disappeared, yet it is precisely this final disappearance of my humanity that I fear most. The prospect of becoming a wild beast with no recollection of my former self is excruciating beyond words. That is my fate, alas, and now there is no way to escape it…”
Again the voice died away; for some time there was silence in the grove. Yüan Ts‘an and his attendants stood with bated breath, awestruck by the incredible recital. Then at length the voice was heard once more:
“Before I leave the human realm for good, I have a request to make of you.”
“Name it.” said Yüan Ts‘an. “It shall be fulfilled.”
“My request is this. The ambition of my former days was to be recognized as a great poet, but before this could be realized I came to my present pass. Of the countless poems I composed, none, I expect, is still extant. Doubtless they have disappeared from human ken like smoke blown by the wind. The sole remaining vestige of my art is a dozen or so poems that I have committed to memory. Write these down, I beg you, and make sure that they do not follow their author into oblivion.
“Yet do not think, my friend, that on the strength of these few verses I now hope to set myself up as a great poet! My only thought is that I cannot bear to leave this world without knowing that at least some of the poems which cost me my career, my fortune, and at last my mind may be transmitted to posterity.”
