The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by J. Thomas Rimer

  Above Sadao’s head, as he walked along absorbed in such musings, the singing voices of the nightingales were growing more lively. But Sadao did not pay much attention to them. He was thinking that the shortsighted actions of Dengyō, who relied on himself, were like those of his wife, who, rejecting a sedan chair, was trying to make her way on foot through this snow when there was no telling how far it went on. If that was so, was he himself like Kōbō? With this thought, Sadao once again considered the great mindedness of Kōbō. Availing himself of the power of nature to the utmost, he waged a battle of endurance with the government in Kyoto. In brief, if one compared him with Sadao, Kōbō was the type to make use of the sedan chair and negotiate the uncertain, snowy road to his destination. When difficulties arose between the government and Mount Koya, Kōbō concealed his whereabouts and came out again when the problem was solved. In contrast to the recklessness of Dengyō, who incessantly bore down on the capital beneath Mount Hiei with the force of his personality and scholarship, Kōbō, who spent his entire life in safety, understood the strategies of agovernment that, even greater than the power of nature, wielded the formidable and foremost power of this world. Sadao did not consider that actions undertaken without regard to the supreme authority were those of a great spirit risking all. If one had asked his reason, he would have said that if the actions of a Dengyō who was always pushing himself forward were allowed to continue, the hardships of the devotees who came after him would necessarily destroy the reserves of strength of the whole Tendai sect.

  Actually, Sadao, as he observed the unsteady gait of Kiyoshi, who, sandwiched between his parents, was sulkily trudging on, felt a constant, unbearable unease that the child would not be able to keep up too much longer. Meanwhile, the sedan-chair bearers, who had been persistently trailing them, had, at some point, fallen back and were no longer to be seen. In their place, however, an old woman, keeping a sharp eye on how Kiyoshi was doing, was still following them. Now she came up, saying to let her carry the child as far as the cable car for the Sakamoto descent.

  “How about it? Shall we have just Kiyoshi carried?” Sadao suggested again.

  “It’s all right. He can walk,” Chieko said, turning around and looking at Kiyoshi.

  “Even so, it’s still a long way. A child like this can’t walk that far. But I’ll lower the price.” Saying this, the old woman wedged herself between Kiyoshi and Sadao. “But this child has strong legs. He’s all right.”

  “Let her carry him. Let her carry him,” Sadao repeated.

  “There’s still a long way to go. I’ll make it cheaper. I’m on my way home anyway, so just let me carry him.”

  Chieko, seeming to give up in this contest with the old woman who was constantly sidling up to them, asked Kiyoshi, “Kiyoshi-chan, what shall we do? Do you want to be carried?”

  “I’m walking,” said Kiyoshi, disengaging himself from the old woman.

  At times like this, Kiyoshi, who for a long time had been an only child, invariably took his mother’s side.

  “Are you going back as far as Sakamoto?” Chieko asked the old woman.

  “Yes, that’s right. I go back and forth every day.”

  “Are there people with children to be carried, around here?”

  “Lately there haven’t been any. I’ve gone empty-handed every day.” The old woman seemed to have resigned herself to not carrying Kiyoshi. With the expression of a fellow wayfarer, she began walking in a free and easy manner alongside them.

  Sadao felt his mood, which had begun to lose its balance, at last regain its equilibrium. But Kiyoshi, aware that his parents had almost had a quarrel over him, stuck close to his mother when Sadao came up to his side. Sadao, when he thought that this old woman would be with them from now on as far as the next cable station, even though she had restored his mood, felt the unease of not knowing when his irritation of before would again coil around his mind. . . . This time he walked on ahead of everybody. Even as he walked, he thought that he was not likely to feel any more satisfaction than right now. . . . From his own, he tried to imagine the lonely thoughts of Dengyō as he walked along the snowy road. No doubt Dengyō had passed this way any number of times from Kyoto. What sort of satisfaction had he felt? Once he had established his temple here, even his prayers for the salvation of mankind, in the loneliness of such surroundings, must have been little different from the everyday thoughts that came and went in the minds of ordinary people. And yet, just then Sadao felt that he could understand Dengyō’s satisfaction in having chosen this mountaintop that looked down on Kyoto on one side and the picturesque scenery of Lake Biwa on another. In contrast to that, his own present satisfaction, the simple satisfaction of having entered into a peaceful frame of mind in which he thought of nothing, was good, but as he thought of how even that was not easy for him, he wanted to immediately come to the end of this snowy road out into the clearing from which Lake Biwa was visible.

  Soon the road, which had been shadowy and dark up to now, abruptly came out into a spacious area where the sun shone brightly. It was the central compound, the site of the main temple. From the eaves of the temple, which stood in a hollow somewhat away from the great plaza, the drops of melted snow were falling like rain.

  “Well, here we are.” Sadao turned around to Chieko and Kiyoshi. It didn’t seem possible to get as far as the front of the temple in their straw sandals. So the three, quickly making their way to the edge of the square, stood looking down. The lake, enfolded by the fields of early spring, glittering in the sun, lay spread out beneath them.

  “Oh, how big it is. I didn’t think Lake Biwa was this big. My, my,” Chieko said.

  For Sadao too, it was the first time he had seen Lake Biwa in many years. But it seemed to him that compared with the Lake Biwa he had viewed from here as a boy, the colors of the scenery were shallow and faded. In particular, the pines of Karasaki, once recognizable at a glance, had completely wasted away. One could no longer tell where Karasaki was. But for a mere temple and its grounds as a suburb of Kyoto, this was certainly the ideal place, Sadao thought. The trouble was, it was too ideal. If one occupied a site like this, at no time would the jealousy and glares of envy gathering about it from all sides abate. Now at last, Sadao felt the lofty authority and prestige of Dengyō, who had selected this place; but the psychology that lived by always looking down on Kyoto and Lake Biwa, which after Dengyō’s death became arrogance, highhandedness, and the rambunctious behavior of the monks, could easily be imagined. It would be difficult to crush unless one were like the warlord Nobunaga, a believer in Christianity, which was the wellspring of European thought. It seemed to Sadao that the gods’ enshrinement in this sort of prestigious location could only have the effect of roiling up the hearts of the monks who were their custodians and, on the contrary, making it harder for them to pray for the salvation of mankind. In contrast, the lowliness of a Shinran, putting roots down in the city, the realistic faith that flowed into the tradesmen’s houses, it seemed to Sadao, was similar to the spirit of Laozi, who taught that the center of gravity must always be lower, lower.

  However, even if that were so, even if he was looking down at this Lake Biwa at his feet, Sadao could not easily regain his peace of mind. Dengyō, besides being determined to influence the government of his time, must, after all, have set his heart on this mountaintop in order to obtain spiritual peace. If so, it was a complete mistake. Also, the decision to build the main sanctuary in a hollow, lower than the plaza, a plan that rendered the view below worthless, it seemed to Sadao, sprang from a strategy of penance: but the romantic defect of the temple’s being on a mountaintop would naturally have had a bad effect on the sect’s welfare.

  With Kiyoshi and Chieko in tow, Sadao walked along the road, now somewhat downhill. Probably because it was brighter and the snow had melted more here than on the road toward Kyoto, the voices of the nightingales were livelier than ever. Along the way a vendor was selling blue-lacquer bamboo flutes that imitated the nigh
tingales’ song. Sadao bought three, one for himself and two for Kiyoshi. The little flutes, by the way one pressed one’s fingertip against the end stop, emitted various notes of the nightingale. When Sadao showed Kiyoshi how to play one of the notes, Kiyoshi, who had grown sulky with fatigue, suddenly broke into a smile and played it himself. The voices of the nightingales—were they following after them?—continued overhead like the welling up of a spring.

  For a while Sadao walked along in the pleasure and interest of getting a little better each time he played the flute, whereupon Kiyoshi, too, playing first one flute, then the other, his face lit up by the speckles of sunshine that slid and flowed down through the treetops, walked along slowly behind Sadao.

  “It’s just as if I’d brought two children with me. Come along quickly,” Chieko said, waiting for Kiyoshi to catch up. Each time he was called by his parents, Kiyoshi hurried toward them but before long would stop again. As the road went along the edge of a cliff where there were no trees and the voices of the nightingales all died away, Sadao and Kiyoshi, before and behind, blowing their flutes in turn, made like nightingales. Before long, Kiyoshi, who by degrees had become a skillful flutist, even managed such trills as “kekkyo, kekkyo, hokekkyo.”

  “His nightingale is still a baby bird. Mine is the parent bird. Why don’t you give it a try?” Sadao smilingly said to Chieko.

  “Ho, ho-kekkyo, ho, kekkyo.”

  Although Chieko declined to accompany him, each time the road rounded the cliff and the lake appeared below, putting her hand to her forehead, she would stop and happily take in the view.

  Soon the three of them arrived at the cable station. There was still a little time before the car left, so going to the edge of the observation platform that had been cut into the head of a peak that jutted out into the deep valley, they sat down on a bench. Through the pointy tops of a dense yew-tree forest, Sadao could see the lake. But drawing up his legs on the bench, he stretched out full length, face up. In his fatigue he felt as if his back were cleaving fast to the boards of the bench. And in the pleasure of feeling his fatigue being slowly absorbed by the wood, for the first time his heart became clear and empty. He was no longer thinking about the wife and child who sat by his side. As absentmindedly he let his eye roam free in the sky, where there was not a shred of cloud, he felt that if he were to die now, it would be a peaceful death. He no longer had any desires, he thought. Well, he would like a pillow, but it was no great matter if there weren’t any.

  Chieko, whether because she was tired, was silent and did not move. Only Kiyoshi still played on his flute, repeating the phrase “ho, kekkyo, kekkyo.”

  For a while Sadao lay basking in the sun. Soon though, when it came time for the cable car to leave, even this moment of peace would instantly become a dream of the past, he thought. Just then, unexpectedly, there floated into his mind the faces of his friends who did not have children. Feeling as if this were a strange event that ought not to have occurred, he wondered how, despite their childlessness, they could endure life day by day. Becoming one with the faces of the monks of Enryaku Temple who had run amok, his friends’ faces would not leave his mind. But then, thinking that such things were as they were and that probably his friends regarded with amusement and distaste the carnal muck of desire, Sadao once again lifted his eyes to the clear, serene heart of the sky.

  “Ye gods, look down upon me. I have children here below.” Sadao stretched out leisurely until he lay as if spread-eagled on a chopping board. The matter of Dengyō was all one to him now. But the time went by unexpectedly quickly. As he was slipping into a doze, Chieko said abruptly, “They’re already clipping tickets. If we don’t hurry, we’ll be late.”

  Let it leave. I don’t care. With this audacious thought, Sadao stood up. His eyes on Kiyoshi and Chieko, who were running up the road toward the station, he brought up the rear.

  When Sadao boarded the car, the bell immediately rang. The car, as if to plunge into the heart of the lake, slid straight down toward it.

  “Ho, kekkyo, kekkyo, ho, kekkyo, kekkyo.” Kiyoshi, close up against the window, went on playing his flute.

  POETRY IN THE INTERNATIONAL STYLE

  After World War I and into the 1930s, the influence of late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century European poetry helped change contemporary Japanese poetry. Translations of the poetry of such French masters as Verlaine, Baudelaire, and Rimbaud into evocative Japanese-language versions by such gifted writers as Horiguchi Daigaku, Ueda Bin, and Nagai Kafū helped inspire these experiments. The following is a small selection of some of the most accomplished work of this period.

  TAKAMURA KŌTARŌ

  Takamura Kōtarō (1883–1956), samples of whose work can be found in the previous chapter, set the tone for this new, European-inspired poetry with “Cathedral in the Thrashing Rain” (Ame ni utaruru katedoraru, 1921), prompted by his sojourn in Paris from 1908 to 1909.

  CATHEDRAL IN THE THRASHING RAIN (AME NI UTARURU KATEDORARU)

  O another deluge of wind and rain.

  Collar turned up, getting drenched in this splashing rain,

  and looking up at you—it’s me,

  me who never fails to come here once a day.

  It’s that Japanese.

  This morning

  about daybreak the storm suddenly went violent, terrible,

  and now is blowing through Paris from one end to the other.

  I have yet to know the directions of this land.

  I don’t even know which way this storm is facing, raging over the Ile-de-France.

  Only because even today I wanted to stand here

  and look up at you, Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris,

  I came, getting drenched,

  only because I wanted to touch you,

  only because I wanted to kiss your skin, the stone, unknown to anyone.

  O another deluge of wind and rain.

  Though it’s already time for morning coffee,

  a little while ago I looked from the Pont Neuf,

  the boats on the Seine were still tied up to the banks, like puppies.

  The leaves of the gentle plane trees shining in their autumn colors on the banks

  are like flocks of buntings chased by hawks,

  glittering, scattering, flying about.

  The chestnut trees behind you,

  each time their heads, spreading branches, get mussed up,

  starling-color leaves dance up into the sky.

  By the splashes of rain blowing down, they are then

  dashed like arrows on the cobblestones and burst.

  All the square is like a pattern,

  filled with flowing silver water, and isles of golden-brown burned brown leaves.

  Then there’s the noise of the downpour resounding in my pores.

  It’s the noise of something roaring, grinding.

  As soon as human beings hushed up

  all the other things in Paris began at once to shout in chorus.

  With golden plane tree leaves falling all over my coat,

  I’m standing in it.

  Storms are like this in my country, Japan, too.

  Only, we don’t see you soaring.

  O Notre Dame, Notre Dame,

  rock-like, mountain-like, eagle-like, crouching lion–like cathedral,

  reef sunk in vast air,

  square pillar of Paris,

  sealed by the blinding splatters of rain,

  taking the slapping wind head-on,

  O soaring in front, Notre Dame de Paris,

  it’s me, looking up at you.

  It’s that Japanese.

  My heart trembles now that I see you.

  Looking at your form like a tragedy,

  a young man from a far distant country is moved.

  Not at all knowing for what reason, my heart pounds

  in unison with the screams in the air, resounds as if terrified.

  O another deluge of wind and rain.

  How furious t
hese four elements of nature

  that would, if they could, snuff out your existence, return you to the original void.

  Smoking phosphorescent shafts of rain.

  Scales of the clouds flying, mottled, not quite touching your top.

  Blasts of the persistent clinging gales, trying to snap off at least one column of the bell tower.

  Innumerable, small, shining elves that bump against the rose window dentils, burst, flow, and flap about.

  Only the gargoyles, the monsters on the high architectural rims, visible between splashes,

  taking on the flitting flocks of elves,

  raise their paws, crane their necks,

  bare their teeth, blow out burning fountains of breath.

  The many lines of mysterious stone saints make eerie gestures, nod to one another,

  the enormous arc-boutants on the side reveal their familiar upper arms.

  To their many arms that form arcs aslant,

  O what a concentration of wind and rain.

  I hear the reverberation of the organ during Mass.

  How is the rooster at the tip of the tall slender steeple doing?

  Flapping curtains of water have dammed up all directions.

  You stand in them.

  O another deluge of wind and rain.

  A cathedral standing in it

  solid with the weight of eight centuries,

  a mass of many millions of stones piled and carved by believers of old.

  A great scaffold for truth, sincerity, and eternity.

  You stand wordless,

  you stand, taking on, motionless, the force of the blasting storm.

  You know the strength of nature’s force,

  have the composure of mind to leave yourself to the rampant wind and rain, till the earth shakes.

  O rusty gray iron-color skin of stone glistening in the rain.