Modern Japanese Literature

by Donald Keene

  He stretched himself once, with a movement that might have been that of a cat just as well as a tiger. He growled lazily once or twice. Then, as Tamae began to tease him, he made a sudden savage lunge straight at Tamae’s chest. The chain by which he was fastened sprang taut with a snap as he bounded fiercely about.

  The audience was in an uproar. “Fukai! Fukai!” voices shouted all over the theatre. Fukai was almost beside himself as he pounced and leapt. He had no complaints now. Nor any resentment. His depression and shame had vanished. All that remained in his ecstatic heart was an indescribable joy.

  The curtains closed just as he was executing the most daring and savage leap of all. The applause of the audience echoed through the theatre. He was utterly content. Still dressed in his costume, he withdrew triumphantly. In the dark shadows of the wings someone unexpectedly caught his hand. He turned his head, somewhat startled, and looked through the peepholes in his mask. There stood his son, Wataru. “Father!” he said.

  With sickening suddenness, Fukai plunged from the heights of pride to the depths of shame. He blushed as he stood before his son. But when he looked down once more into the boy’s eyes, there was no hint of reproach in them for the role his father had played. Their expression was tearful, as if he could have wept in sympathy with his father.

  “Wataru!” exclaimed Fukai, clasping the boy tightly in his arms. The tears fell in big drops and trickled along the stripes in the tiger costume. . . .

  Thus the tiger and the human child stood for a while, weeping together in the shadows of the dark scenery.

  TRANSLATED BY ROBERT H. BROWER

  KESA AND MORITŌ

  [Kesa to Moritō, 1918] by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke (1892-1927)

  The reinterpretations of traditional Japanese tales, chiefly of those contained in the thirteenth-century Tales from the Uji Collection, form the most brilliant part of the writings of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke. In this unusual presentation of the affair between the lady Kesa and the soldier Moritō—treated also by Kikuchi Kan in his “Gate of Hell”—Akutagawa’s particular genius for the macabre is splendidly displayed.

  •

  Night. Moritō gazes at the new-risen moon, as he walks through dead leaves lying outside a wall. He is lost in thought.

  There’s the moon. I used to wait for it, but now its brightness fills me with horror. When I think that I’ll be a murderer before the night is over, I can’t help trembling. Imagine these two hands red with blood! How evil I’ll seem to myself then! Yet if I had to kill a hated enemy, my conscience wouldn’t trouble me this way. Tonight I must kill a man I do not hate.

  I’ve known him by sight for a long time . . . Wataru Saemonno-jō. Though his name’s still new to me, I can’t remember how many years ago I first saw that fair, slightly too handsome face. Of course I was jealous when I found he was Kesa’s husband, but my jealousy has completely disappeared. So even if he’s a rival in love, I don’t feel any hatred or resentment toward him. No, you might say I’m sympathetic. When Koromogawa told me how hard he worked to win Kesa, I actually thought very kindly of him. Didn’t he go so far as to take lessons in writing poetry, merely to help his courtship? I find myself smiling a little to think of the love poems written by that simple, honest samurai. Not a scornful smile: it seems rather touching that he went to such lengths to please her. Perhaps his passionate eagerness to please the woman I love gives me, her lover, a kind of satisfaction.

  But can I really say that I love Kesa? Our love affair has had two phases: past and present. I was already in love with her before she married Wataru. Or I thought I was. Now that I recall, my feelings were scarcely pure. What did I want from Kesa, at that time when I’d never had a woman? Obviously I wanted her body. I’m not far wrong in saying my love was only a sentimental embellishment of that desire. For example, it’s true I didn’t forget her during the three years after we broke off—but would I have stayed in love if I’d already slept with her? I admit I haven’t the courage to say yes. A good deal of my later love was regret that I’d never had her. So I brooded on my discontent, till at last I fell into this relationship that I’d feared, and yet longed for. And now? Let me ask myself again. Do I really love Kesa?

  When I happened to see her three years later at the dedication of the Watanabe Bridge, I began trying everything I could think of to meet her in secret. And after about half a year I succeeded. Not only that, I made love to her just as I’d dreamed. Yet what dominated me then was not the regret that I hadn’t slept with her. Meeting Kesa there in Koromogawa’s house, I noticed my regret had already faded. No doubt it was weakened because I’d had other women—but the real reason is that she was no longer beautiful. What had become of the Kesa of three years ago? Now her skin was lusterless; her smooth cheeks and neck had withered; only those clear, proud, black eyes . . . and there were dark rings around them. The change in her had a crushing effect on my desire. I remember how shocked I was: face to face with her at last, I had to look away.

  Then why did I make love to a woman who seemed so unattractive? In the first place, I felt a strange urge to make a conquest of her. There sat Kesa, deliberately exaggerating how much she loved her husband. But to me it had only a hollow ring. She’s vain of him, I thought. Or again: She’s afraid I’ll pity her. Every moment I became more anxious to expose her lies. Why did I think she was lying? If anyone told me conceit had something to do with my suspicion, I couldn’t very well deny it. Nevertheless, I believed she was lying. I still believe it.

  But it wasn’t only the urge to conquer her that possessed me. Even more—and I feel myself blush to think of it—I was driven by sheer lust. Not the regret that I’d never slept with her. It was a coarse lust-for-lust’s-sake that might have been satisfied by any woman. A man taking a prostitute wouldn’t have been so gross.

  Anyway, out of such motives I finally made love to Kesa. Or rather I forced myself on her. And now when I come back to my first question—no, there’s no need for me to go on wondering whether or not I love her. Sometimes I hate her. Especially when it was all over and she lay there crying . . . as I pulled her up to me she seemed more disgusting than I was. Tangled hair, sweat-smeared make-up—everything showed her ugliness of mind and body. If I’d been in love with her till then, that was the day love vanished forever. Or, if I hadn’t, it was the day a new hatred entered my heart. To think that tonight, for the sake of a woman I don’t love, I’m going to murder a man I don’t hate!

  And, really, I have only myself to blame. I boldly suggested it. “Let’s kill Wataru!” . . . When I think of whispering those words into her ear, I begin to doubt my own sanity! But I whispered them, though I knew I shouldn’t have, and set my teeth against it. Why did I want to? Looking back at it now, I can’t imagine. If I have to decide, I suppose the more I despised and hated her, the more I felt I had to bring her some kind of shame. What could be better than saying we should kill Wataru—that husband she made so much of—and forcing her to consent? And so, like a man in a nightmare, I pressed her to agree to this murder I didn’t want to commit. If that’s not a sufficient motive, I can only say that some unknown power—call it an evil spirit—lured me astray. Anyhow, I grimly went on whispering the same thing over and over into Kesa’s ear.

  After a little while she looked up at me—and meekly consented. But it wasn’t just how easily I’d persuaded her that surprised me. Then, for the first time, I saw a curious gleam in her eye . . . Adulteress! A sudden despair awakened me to the horror of my dilemma. How I detested that foul, repulsive creature! I wanted to take back my promise. I wanted to thrust that treacherous woman down into the depths of shame. Then, even if I’d satisfied myself with her, my conscience could have hidden behind a display of indignation. But it was impossible. While she looked into my eyes her expression changed, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking . . . I confess it frankly: the reason I found myself fixing the day and hour to kill Wataru was the fear that, if I refused, Kesa would have her revenge. Yes, and th
is fear still holds its relentless grip on me. Never mind those who would laugh at my cowardice—they didn’t see Kesa at that moment! In despair I watched her dry-eyed weeping, and thought: If I don’t kill him she’ll make sure I’m the victim somehow, so I’ll kill him and get it over with. And after I made the vow, didn’t I see her pale face dimple with a smile as she lowered her gaze?

  Now, because of this evil promise I’m going to add murder to all my other crimes! If I break this promise that hangs over my head tonight. . . . But I can’t. For one thing, there’s my vow. For another, I said I was afraid of her revenge. And that’s certainly true. But there’s something more. . . . What? What is the power that drives me, a coward like me, to murder an innocent man? I don’t know. I don’t know, though possibly. . . . But that couldn’t be. I despise the woman. I’m afraid of her. I detest her. And yet . . . perhaps it’s because I love her.

  Moritō wanders on, silent. Moonlight. A voice is heard singing a ballad.

  Darkness enshrouds the human heart

  In an illimitable night;

  Only the fires of earthly passion

  Blaze and die with life.

  2

  Night. Kesa sits outside gauze bed curtains, her back to a lamp. She nibbles at her sleeve, lost in thought.

  Will he come or not, I wonder. Surely he will, yet the moon is already sinking and there isn’t a footstep. He may have changed his mind. If he doesn’t come. . . . Oh, I’ll have to lift up my wicked face to the sun again, like any prostitute. How could I be so brazen? I’d be like a corpse left by the roadside—humiliated, trampled on, and then shamelessly exposed to light. And I’d have to keep silent. If that happened, even my death wouldn’t be the end of it. But no, he’ll come. When I looked into his eyes before we parted that day, I knew he would. He’s afraid of me. He hates and despises me, and yet he’s afraid of me. Of course, if I had to rely only on myself, I couldn’t be sure he’d come. But I rely on him. I rely on his selfishness. Yes, I rely on the disgusting fear that his selfishness creates. And so I can be sure of him. He’ll come stealing in . . .

  But what a pitiful thing I am, now that I’ve lost confidence in myself! Three years ago I depended above all on my own beauty Perhaps it would be truer to say till that day—the day I met him at my aunt’s house. One glance into his eyes and I saw my ugliness mirrored in them. He pretended I hadn’t changed, and talked as seductively as if he really wanted me. But how can such words console a woman, once she knows her own ugliness? I was bitter . . . frightened . . . wretched. How much worse, even, than the ominous uneasiness I felt as a child in my nurse’s arms when I saw the moon eclipsed! He had destroyed all my dreams. And then loneliness enveloped me like a gray, rainy dawn. Shivering with that loneliness, at last I yielded my corpselike body to the man—to a man I don’t even love, a lecherous man who hates and despises me! Couldn’t I bear the loneliness of mourning my lost beauty? Was I trying to shut it out that delirious moment when I buried my face in his arms? Or, if not, was I myself stirred by his kind of filthy lust? Even to think so is shameful to me! shameful! shameful! Especially when he let me go, and my body was free again, how loathsome I felt!

  I tried not to weep, but loneliness and anger kept the tears welling to my eyes. I wasn’t just miserable because I’d been unfaithful. I had been unfaithful, but worst of all I was despised, I was hated and tormented like a leprous dog. What did I do then? I have only a vague, distant memory. I recall that, as I was sobbing, I thought his mustache grazed my ear . . . and with his hot breath came the soft whispered words: “Let’s kill Wataru!” Hearing them I felt an odd exhilaration, such as I’d never known before. Exhilaration? If moonlight may be called bright, I felt exhilarated—but it was far from an exhilaration like strong sunlight. Yet didn’t those dreadful words comfort me, after all? Oh, to me—to a woman—is there still joy in being loved even if it means killing your own husband?

  I went on crying for a while, out of my strange, moonlit-night feelings of loneliness and exhilaration. And after that? When did I finally promise to help him in this murder? Only then did I think of my husband. Yes, only then. Until that instant I was obsessed with my own shame. And then the thought of my husband, my gentle, reserved husband ... no, it wasn’t the thought of him, but the vivid image of his smiling face—smiling as he told me something. In that instant the plan occurred to me. I was ready to die . . . and I was happy.

  But when I stopped crying and looked up into his eyes, my ugliness was still mirrored in them. I felt the happiness dissolve away . . . again I think of the darkness of that eclipse I saw with my nurse ... it was as if all the evil spirits lurking beneath my joy had been set free at once. Was it really because I love my husband that I wanted to die in his place? No, it was a pretext—I wanted to make up for the sin of giving my body to that man. I haven’t the courage to commit suicide, and I’m miserably worried about what people will think. All this might still be forgiven, but it’s even more disgusting—much more ugly. On the pretext of sacrificing myself for my husband, didn’t I really want revenge for the man’s hatred of me, for his scorn, for his blind, evil lust? Yes, I’m sure of it. Looking into his face I lost that queer moonlight exhilaration and my heart froze with grief. I’ll not die for my husband—I’ll the for myself. I’ll the from bitterness for my wounded feelings, from resentment for my tainted body. Oh, I didn’t even have a decent cause for dying!

  Yet how much better to die that unworthy death than to go on living! So I forced a smile and promised over and over to help kill my husband. He’s clever enough to guess what I’ll do if he fails me. He even swore to it, so he’ll surely come stealing in. . . . Is that the wind? When I think all these torments will end tonight, I feel an immense relief. Tomorrow the chilly light of dawn will fall on my headless corpse. When he sees it, my husband—no, I don’t want to think of him. He loves me but I can’t return his love. I have loved only one man, and tonight my lover will kill me. Even the lamplight is dazzling ... in this last sweet torture.

  Kesa blows out the light. Soon, the faint sound of a shutter opening. And a shaft of pale moonlight strikes the curtains.

  TRANSLATED BY HOWARD HIBBETT

  HELL SCREEN

  [Jigokuhen, 1918] by Akutagawa Ryùnosuke

  •

  I doubt whether there will ever be another man like the Lord of Horikawa. Certainly there has been no one like him till now. Some say that a Guardian King appeared to her ladyship his mother in a dream before he was born; at least it is true that from the day he was born he was a most extraordinary person. Nothing he did was commonplace; he was constantly startling people. You have only to glance at a plan of Horikawa to perceive its grandeur. No ordinary person would ever have dreamt of the boldness and daring with which it was conceived.

  But it certainly was not his lordship’s intention merely to glorify himself; he was generous, he did not forget the lower classes; he wanted the whole country to enjoy itself when he did.

  There is the story about the famous Kawara Palace at Higashi Sanjō. It was said that the ghost of Tōru, Minister of the Left, appeared there night after night until his lordship exorcised it by rebuking it. Such was his prestige in the capital that everyone, man, woman, and child, regarded him, with good reason, as a god incarnate. Once, as he was returning in his carriage from the Feast of the Plum Blossoms, his ox got loose and injured an old man who happened to be passing. But the latter, they say, put his hands together in reverence and was actually grateful that he had been knocked over by an ox of his lordship.

  Thus, there are the makings of many good stories in the life of his lordship. At a certain banquet he made a presentation of thirty white horses; another time he gave a favorite boy to be the human pillar of Nagara Bridge. There would be no end if I started to tell them all. Numerous as these anecdotes are, I doubt if there are any that match in horror the story of the making of the Hell Screen, one of the most valuable treasures in the house. His lordship is not easily upset, but that time
he seemed to be startled. How much more terrified, then, were we who served him; we feared for our very souls. As for me, I had served him for twenty years, but when I witnessed that dreadful spectacle I felt that such a thing could never have happened before. But in order to tell this story, I must first tell about Yoshihide, who painted the Hell Screen.

  2

  Yoshihide is, I expect, remembered by many even today. In his time he was a famous painter surpassed by no contemporary. He would be about fifty then, I imagine. He was cross-grained, and not much to look at: short of stature, a bag of skin and bones, and his youthful red lips made him seem even more evil, as though he were some sort of animal. Some said it was because he put his reddened paint brush to his lips, but I doubt this. Others, more unkind, said that his appearance and movements suggested a monkey. And that reminds me of this story. Yoshihide’s only daughter, Yūzuki, a charming girl of fifteen, quite unlike her father, was at that time a maid in Horikawa. Probably owing to the fact that her mother had died while she was still very small, Yūzuki was sympathetic and intelligent beyond her years, and greatly petted by her ladyship and her attendants in consequence.

  About that time it happened that someone presented a tame monkey from Tamba. The mischievous young lord called it Yoshihide. The monkey was a comical-looking beast, anyway; with this name, nobody in the mansion could resist laughing at him. But they did more than that. If he climbed the pine tree in the garden, or soiled the mats, whatever he did they teased him, shouting, “Yoshihide, Yoshihide.”

  One day Yūzuki was passing along one of the long halls with a note in a twig of red winter plum blossom when the monkey appeared from behind a sliding door, fleeing as fast as he could. Apparently he had dislocated a leg, for he limped, unable, it seemed, to climb a post with his usual agility. After him came the young lord, waving a switch, shouting, “Stop thief! Orange thief!” Yūzuki hesitated a moment, but it gave the fleeing monkey a chance to cling to her skirt, crying most piteously. Suddenly she felt she could not restrain her pity. With one hand she still held the plum branch, with the other, the sleeve of her mauve kimono sweeping in a half-circle, she picked the monkey up gently. Then bending before the young lord, she said sweetly, “I crave your pardon. He is only an animal. Be kind enough to pardon him, my lord.”