The Temple of the Golden Pavilion

by Yukio Mishima

  Thus the sky moved during the entire night. There was no indication that the wind was going to grow any stronger. I slept by the railing. Early the next morning-a clear, bright morning—the sexton came and informed me that the typhoon had left the area, having fortunately missed Kyoto.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS almost a year now that I had been in mourning for Tsurukawa. Once my solitude had started, I realized anew that it was easy for me to become accustomed to this state and that the most effortless existence for me was in fact one in which I was not obliged to speak to anyone. My fretful attitude to lire left me. Each dead day had its charm.

  The university library was my one and only pleasure resort. I did not read books on Zen, but such translations of novels and philosophical works as happened to be on hand. I hesitate to mention the names of those writers and philosophers. I am aware of the influence that they had on me and also of the fact that it was they who inspired me to the deed that I committed; yet I like to believe that the deed itself was my own original creation; in particular, I do not want this deed to be explained away as having been actuated by some established philosophy.

  As I have already explained, the fact of not being understood by others had been my sole source of pride since my early youth, and I had not the slightest impulse to express myself in such a way that I might be understood. When I did try to clarify my thoughts and actions, I did so with no consideration whatsoever. I do not know whether or not this was because I wanted to understand myself. Such a motive is in accord with a person's real character and comes automatically to form a bridge between himself and others. The intoxication that I derived from the Golden Temple served to make part of my personality opaque; and, because this intoxication deprived me of all other forms of intoxication, I was obliged to resist it by making a deliberate effort to preserve the clear parts of my personality. I do not know about others, but in my own case, the clarity itself was I and, conversely, it was not a case of my being the owner.

  It was now the time of the spring holidays in 1948, my second year in the university. The Superior went out one evening. As I had no friends, the only way in which I could profit from his absence was by taking a walk by myself. I left the temple and walked out through the Somon Gate. Outside, the gate was bordered by a ditch, next to which stood a notice board. I had been seeing this old board for a long time, but now I stopped before it and idly began reading the characters, which were bathed in the moonlight:

  NOTICE

  1. No alterations may be carried out on these premises without special permission.

  2. Nothing may be done that can in any way affect the preservation of these premises.

  The attention of the public is directed to these regulations.

  Any breach of these regulations will be puhished according to the law.

  MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR. March 3l, 1928

  The notice clearly referred to the Golden Temple. Yet it was impossible to gather any definite allusion from the abstract words themselves. I could not help feeling that a notice board like this existed in an utterly different world from that inhabited by the immutable, indestructible temple. The notice itself anticipated some inscrutable or impossible deed. The man who had drafted these regulations and who had thus given a summary description of this sort of deed must have been someone who had hopelessly lost his bearings. For this was a deed that only a madman could plan; and how could one possibly scare a madman in advance by threatening to puhish his deed? What was probably needed was a special form of writing that could be understood only by madmen.

  I was engaged in such empty thoughts when I noticed a form approaching along the wide road in front of the gate. At this hour there was not a trace of the crowds of sight-seers who came here during the day; only the moonlit pine trees and the glare of the headlights, as the cars passed to and fro along the highway beyond where I stood, filled the night.

  All of a sudden I recognized the form as Kashiwagi's. I could tell it was he by the way he walked. Then and there I decided to end the estrangement between us that I had chosen during the entire past year, and thought only of my gratitude towards him for having cured me in the past. For he had indeed cured me at the time. From the first day that I had met him he had cured my crippled thoughts by means of his ungainly clubfeet, by his unreserved and wounding words, by his complete confession. I should by all rights have perceived what joy there lay for me in being able for the first time to hold a conversation with someone on an equal footing. I should have relished that joy (which was akin to committing an act of immorality) of immersing myself into the very depths of the firm knowledge that I was both a priest and a stutterer. Yet all this had been expunged because of my relations with Tsurukawa.

  I greeted Kashiwagi with a smile. He wore his student uniform and carried a long, narrow bundle.

  "Are you going somewhere?” he said.

  "No."

  "It's good that I met you,” he said. He sat down on some stone steps and unwrapped his bundle.

  “You see," he said, showing me two dark, glossy tubes which formed a shakuhachi flute, "an uncle of mine in my home town died recently and left me this flute as a keepsake. But I still have the one he gave me long ago when he was teaching me how to play. This one seems to be a rather finer instrument, but I prefer the one that I'm used to and there's no point in my having two of these things. So I've brought this one along to give you.”

  For someone like me who never received a present from anyone, it was a great joy to be given something, whatever it might be. I picked up the flute and examined it. There were four holes in front and one in back.

  “I belong to the Kinko school of flute-playing," continued Kashiwagi. "Since there was a good moon tonight for a change, I thought I'd come along to the Golden Temple and play it here. At the same time I thought I might give you a lesson.”

  "You've chosen a good time,” I said. "The Superior has gone out, you see. Besides, the lazy old caretaker hasn't finished his sweeping yet. They don't close the temple gates until the sweeping has been done.”

  His appearance at the gate had been abrupt, and so, too, had been his suggestion that he wanted to play the flute in the temple because the moon was so beautiful that night. It all bespoke the Kashiwagi whom I knew. Besides, in my monotonous life the mere fact of being surprised was a pleasure. With my new flute in my hand, I led Kashiwagi to the Golden Temple.

  I have no clear recollection about what we discussed that night. I don't believe that we talked about anything very substantial. Kashiwagi gave no sign of wanting to indulge in his usual eccentric philosophy and barbed paradoxes. Perhaps he had come on purpose to reveal a side of himself whose existence I had so far never suspected. And that night, indeed, this young man with his stinging tongue, who usually seemed interested in beauty only in so far as he could defile it, showed me a truly delicate aspect of his nature. He had a far, far more accurate theory about beauty than I did. He did not tell it to me in words, but with his gestures and his eyes, with the music that he played on his flute, and with that forehead of his which emerged in the moonlight.

  We leaned against the railing of the second story of the Golden Temple, the Choondo. The corridor under the gently curving eaves was supported from below by eight brackets in the Tenjiku style and seemed to rise up from the surface of the pond, where the moon was lodged. First Kashiwagi played a short piece called the “Palace Carriage" I was amazed at his skill. I tried to copy him and put my lips to the mouthpiece, but I could produce no sound. He then carefully taught me how to hold the flute from above with my left hand and how to put my fingers to the proper openings; he also showed me the tricks of how to open one's mouth to hold the mouthpiece and of how to blow air in against the wide metal roil. Yet, though I tried again and again, no sound emerged. My cheeks and eyes were tense, and, although there was no wind, I had the feeling that the moon on the pond was shattering into a thousand fragments.

  After a while I was exhausted, and for
a moment I suspected that Kashiwagi might be imposing this penance on me purposely in order to make fun of my stuttering. The effort, however, of trying to force out a sound that would not come seemed to purify that usual mental energy of mine with which I tried my very best to avoid stuttering by pushing the first words smoothly out of my mouth. I felt as if those sounds that still would not emerge already actually existed somewhere in this quiet, moon-bathed world. I was quite content if only I could reach and awaken those sounds after various lengthy efforts.

  How could I reach that sound-that mysterious sound like the one which Kashiwagi was Dlowing out of his flute? It was skill alone that made it possiole. Beauty was skill. A thought came to me and filled me with courage: just as Kashiwagi could attain such beautiful clear sounds despite his clubfeet, so I could attain beauty by means of skill. But I also recognized something else: Kashiwagi's playing of the "Palace Carriage" sounded so beautiful not only because of the lovely moonlit background, but because of his hideous clubfeet.

  Later when I came to know Kashiwagi more intimately, I understood that he disliked lasting beauty. His likings were limited to things such as music, which vahished instantly, or flower arrangements, which faded in a matter of days; he loathed arehitecture and literature. Clearly he would never think of visiting the Golden Temple except on a moonlit night like this.

  Yet how strange a thing is the beauty of music! The brief beauty that the player brings into being transforms a given period or time into pure continuance; it is certain never to be repeated; like the existence of dayflies and other such shortlived creatures, beauty is a perfect abstraction and creation of life itself. Nothing is so similar to life as music; yet, although the Golden Temple shared the same type of beauty, nothing could have been farther from the world and more scornful of it than the beauty of this building. As soon as Kashiwagi had finished playing the "Palace Carriage," music-that imaginary life-expired, and nothing was left there but his ugly body with its gloomy thoughts, all unscathed and unaltered.

  It was certainly not consolation that Kashiwagi sought in beauty. I understood that much without the slightest discussion. What he loved was that, for a short while after his breath had brought beauty into existence in the air, his own clubfeet and gloomy thinking remained there, more clearly and more vividly than before. The uselessness of beauty, the fact that the beauty which had passed through his body left no mark there whatsoever, that it changed absolutely nothing—it was this that Kashiwagi loved. If beauty could be something like this for me too, how light would my life become!

  I kept on trying time after time according to Kashiwagi's instructions. My face became red and my breath came in gasps. Then, just as if I had suddenly become a bird, and as if a bird's cry had escaped my throat, the flute emitted a single daring note.

  "There you are!" shouted Kashiwagi with a laugh. It was certainly not a beautiful note, but the same sound emerged time after time. Then I fancied that this mysterious sound, which did not seem to emanate from me, was the voice of that golden copper phoenix above our heads.

  Thereafter I used the instruction manual that Kashiwagi had given me and worked hard every evening to improve my playing. In time I was able to play tunes like the "Rising Sun Dyed Red on a White Background,” and my former feelings of friendship for Kashiwagi revived.

  In May it occurred to me that I ought to give Kashiwagi something to show him my appreciation for the flute. But I had no money to buy him a present. I spoke to Kashiwagi frankly about my predicament. He told me that he didn't want anything that cost money. Then, screwing up his mouth in a strange way, he said: "Well, since you've gone out of your way to mention this matter, there actually is something that I'd like. I've been wanting to do some flower arrangement these days, but flowers are far too expensive for me. Now I believe this is just the time when the iris and sweet flag are in bloom at the Golden Temple. Do you think you could possibly bring me a few irises-one or two in bud, a couple that are just beginning to blossom, and a couple in full bloom? You could also let me have a few cattails. Tonight will be all right. What about bringing them to my lodging-house this evening?"

  It was only after I had lightly agreed to his suggestion that I realized that he was actually putting me up to theft. In order for me not to lose face it was, in fact, essential that I become a flower thief.

  We had no rice for supper that evening, only boiled vegetables and heavy black bread. Fortunately it was a Saturday and a number of people from the temple had already gone out in the afternoon. Saturday was known as the "inner opening curtain": one could leave the temple early and did not have to be back until eleven o'clock; besides, the following morning was called "sleeping oblivion” and We were allowed to stay in bed late. The Superior had already gone out.

  The sun finally set at half past six. It began to be windy. I waited for the sound of the first bell of the night. At eight o'clock the high clear sound of the Ojikicho bell at the left of the center gate announced the first watch of the night; it rang eighteen times and its echo hung for a long time in the air.

  Near the Sosci, a small waterfall, half surrounded by a weir, carried the water from a lotus pond into the large Kyoko Pond. It was here that the irises grew in the greatest profusion. They were exceptionally beautiful at that time. As I approached, I heard the clusters of irises rustling in the night wind. The lofty purple petals trembled within the quiet sound of the water. It was very dark in that part of the garden: the purple of the flowers and the dark green of the leaves looked equally black. I tried to pick a few of the irises; but in the wind the flowers and the leaves managed to avoid my hands, and one of the leaves cut my finger.

  When I finally arrived at Kashiwagi's lodging-house with an armful or irises and cattails, he was lying down reading a book. I was afraid of meeting the girl who lived here and who had come on the picnic, but fortunately she seemed to be out.

  My small theft had made me feel cheerful. The first things that my contact with Kashiwagi always produced were small acts of immorality, small desecrations, small evils. These always made me cheerful; but I did not know whether a steady increase in the quantity of this evil would produce a corresponding increase in my cheerfulness.

  Kashiwagi was delighted with my present. He went to the landlady's room to borrow a bucket and various other utensils needed for his flower arrangement.The lodging-house was a one-storied building; Kashiwagi lived in a small room in an outhouse.

  I picked up his flute, which was leaning against the alcove, put my lips to the mouthpiece and tried playing a small étude. I managed extremely well, much to the surprise of Kashiwagi, who just then returned to his room. But the Kashiwagi whom I met that evening was not the same one who had visited the Golden Temple.

  “You don't stutter at all when it comes to the flute, do you? When I taught you how to play, I was hoping to hear what stuttering music sounaea like!"

  With this single remark he pulled us back to the situation that had existed when we first met. He recovered his own position, Thereupon I was able to ask nonchalantly what had happened to the young lady from the Spanish-style house.

  "Oh, that girl?” he replied simply. "She got married ages ago. I didn't leave a stone unturned, though, in showing her how to hide the fact that she was no longer a virgin. But her husband is a healthy, innocent type of fellow and things seem to have gone all right"

  As he spoke, he removed the irises one by one from the bowl of water where they had been soaking and examined them carefully. Then he put the scissors into the bowl and cut the stems in the water. Each time that he held an iris in his hand, the large shadow of the flower would move across the straw-matted floor of the room. Then suddenly he said: "Do you know the famous words in the chapter of Popular Enlightenment in the Rinsairoku? ‘When ye meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha! When ye meet your ancestor, kill your ancestor!...'"

  “‘When ye meet a disciple of Buddha,'" I continued, “‘kill the disciple! When ye meet your father and mother, kill your fat
her and mother! When ye meet your kin, kill your kin! Only thus will ye attain deliverance.'”?

  "That's right. And that was the situation, you see. That girl was a disciple or Buddha.”

  "And so you delivered yourself?"

  "Hm,” said Kashiwagi, arranging some of the irises that he had cut and gazing at them. "There's more to killing than that, you know.”

  The flower bowl was full of limpid water; it was painted silver on the inside. Kashiwagi examined the flower holder and carefully adjusted one of the spikes that was slightly bent. I felt ill at ease and tried to fill the silence by chatting away.

  “You know the problem about Father Nansen and the kitten, don't you? Immediately after the war ended, the Superior called us all together and gave us a sermon about it.”

  "Oh, ‘Nansen Kills a Kitten'?” said Kashiwagi, while he determined the length of a cattail ana held it against the flower basin. "That's a problem that crops up several times in a person's life, always in a slightly different form. It's a rather eery problem, you know. Each time that you come across it at some turning-point in your life, it's changed both in appearance and in meaning, though the problem itself is always the same. First let me tell you that the kitten which Father Nansen killed was a rascally creature! She was beautiful, you know, incomparably beautiful. Her eyes were golden, her fur was glossy. Every pleasure and beauty in this world was flexed taut like a spring within that little soft body of hers. Most of the commentators have forgotten to mention the fact that the kitten was a bundle of beauty. Except for me, that is. The kitten jumped out of a clump of grass all of a sudden. Her gentle, cunning eyes were hining and she was caught by one of the priests-just as if she had done it all on purpose. And it was this that resulted in the quarrel between the two halls of the temple. Because, although beauty may give itself to everyone, it does not actually belong to anybody. Let me see.