The Frolic of the Beasts

by Yukio Mishima

  His face is not at any rate that of a person who tries to delve into others’ affairs. Rather, it’s like a closed window that he sometimes opens, just wide enough to allow the sunlight to filter through. He had known an old and sincere inmate with a similar face.

  * * *

  —

  The four of them entered the first of five greenhouses. It contained mainly gloxinia and lady palm and so the three-quarter-span glass roof, which was built on a slope, was liberally screened with reed blinds. The violet, crimson, and white gloxinia compensated for the dull interior.

  Kōji had learned to think about the beauty of flowers while in prison. But it had never transcended a mere sentimental appreciation from being continually near to them, so wasn’t the sort of knowledge that would stand him in good stead in the future. Kōji was surprised by Yūko’s loquacious explanation. This was clearly knowledge she had acquired in order to earn a living and, as such, far surpassed the fantasies of the likes of Kōji and his former fellow inmates.

  Just then, they noticed a large black shadow fall suddenly across the sunlight that shone down on the flowers and leaves from the reed blinds above. Yūko had been boasting about the large blooms of her white gloxinia, and since the flower heads had darkened, everyone peered up toward the roof. With youthful agility, Teijirō ran along the narrow passageway between the flowers and foliage (Kōji quietly acknowledging Teijirō’s ability to delicately pick his way through the undergrowth without so much as brushing the hard leaf tips of the lady palm that spread out all around), and rushed out in the direction of the entrance. They heard Teijirō yelling from outside, and then, like something that had suddenly exploded having been suppressed in the quiet sunlight, the shrieks and laughter of a group of mischievous youngsters erupted all at once and then subsided.

  “This happens a lot. I wonder what they threw this time?”

  Yūko looked up at the shadow, visible between the gaps in the reed blind; Kōji and Ippei followed her gaze. Strands of glittering sunlight were finely woven in the fabric of the blind, and Kōji vividly felt its origin all the more—the sun’s penetrating rays. The shadow appeared large and ominous, but in fact the object that had been thrown was not so big at all. On the end of something that seemed to be covered in wet black hair was a long and thin hanging tail. It had to be a rat. The children must have found its remains and hurled them onto the roof. For some reason Kōji looked at Ippei’s face. The face of the man whom Yūko had described on their way over here as a person who was unable to communicate freely his desires but whose spirit was immutable. That simple smiling face—a burial marker indicating the place where Ippei’s spirit lived on, albeit incarcerated in a grave.

  The shadow of the reed blind fell on his face and on Yūko’s lips, and like a dark birthmark the shape of the dead rat appeared imprinted on Ippei’s forehead. Then, suddenly, Teijirō’s bamboo pole extended over the blinds, the rat was caught by the tip of the pole, and its shadow jumped skyward. It was hoisted higher and higher, ever closer to the sun, until in an instant it had become parched in its rays.

  * * *

  —

  Soon the rainy season came. On the whole, it was unusually dry. In between the wet days, there were several of brilliant sunshine. On one such day, Yūko, Ippei, and Kōji went on a picnic to the great waterfall on the far side of the mountain.

  Since Kōji’s arrival some three weeks earlier, it appeared as if everything was going smoothly and their lives were settling into a new pattern. He had been provided with an airy six-tatami-mat room on the second floor, and, his daily schedule having been decided quickly, he became friendly with Teijirō. Kōji was given the important tasks of irrigation and the twice-daily spraying of plants—in the morning and evening. He worked hard, was well behaved, and exhibited a keen desire to learn, and before long he became popular with the local villagers who came to and fro.

  Kōji laughed at the thought of how high-strung he had been when he had first arrived. He had repented, he was a different person from his former self, and he no longer had any concerns. He slept well at night, his appetite had improved, he was tanned, and before long, he was able to boast a healthy physique that compared favorably with the young men of the village. His daily independence was a pure delight, and he enjoyed the boundless freedom of strolling alone after work. Even on rainy days, he would set out on a walk, umbrella in hand, and soon he felt well acquainted with every corner of Iro Village. Yūko introduced Kōji to the chief priest of Taisenji temple, from whom he learned the topography and history of the surrounding area. At the close of the sixteenth century, the village formed part of the territory belonging to the local magistrate of Mishima but had, by the end of the Tokugawa Shogunate, come under the authority of the fiefdom of Mondo Manabe. Then, during the Meiji Restoration, it fell under the jurisdiction of Nirayama Prefecture together with many other scenic villages along the Izu Peninsula.

  Yūko had taken up residence here via the good graces of the head of Tokyo Horticulture, and having bought a house from one of the well-to-do villagers, she refurbished it and then erected five greenhouses on the grounds.

  Yūko’s ability, evidenced both in the administration of her disabled husband’s estate and in her swift lifestyle transformation, was a source of wonder to those who had known her in the past.

  And while Kōji wasn’t so surprised to hear about her success, he was nevertheless increasingly astonished by Ippei’s eccentric behavior. Ippei continued his habit of reading the morning newspaper, despite not understanding anything of what he read. He simply sat in silence, with the paper fully open so that the morning sun filtered through its pages. He would just move his head lightly up and down while maintaining this posture for quite some time.

  On other occasions he would have Yūko bring him copies of his own literary works. Stefan George’s collection of translated poems was tastefully bound in marbled German paper, while his critical biography of Li He was covered in an opaque yellow with a marbled ink drawing of a small bird on the inside cover. Sitting in front of his desk, he would fan himself with his left hand while repeatedly turning the pages with his lame right. Sometimes his fingers would get caught and the pages wouldn’t turn over properly. Ippei, however, was undeterred.

  Kōji had quietly watched Ippei from the side window of the greenhouse on the other side of the small garden. What a strangely detestable endeavor it was! If it was true that Ippei’s spirit had not been laid to waste, then his inner spirit ought to have been in complete accord with his external literary works. Undoubtedly, George and Li He still lived on within Ippei’s inner self. In spite of this, however, his view was obstructed by an invisible and impregnable wall, and he could neither read nor comprehend his own writings. Kōji knew how he felt. While in prison he had experienced the same longing for the outside world—his frequent calls having fallen on deaf ears. He felt that he understood Ippei better now than at any time before.

  He wondered what had become of Ippei’s spirit. At first it had probably been surprised at its own inability to understand anything or express itself in words, and then, having eventually grown tired of exhibiting such surprise, had transformed itself into another intelligent self that could do nothing other than watch intently from the sidelines. His hands and feet were bound and his intellect gagged; his literary works were adrift, even now glittering in the distance, moving beyond his reach and summons in the current of some dark and obscure river. In a sense, it was as if the connection between spirit and action had been severed and the one jewel that had been both the source of his self-confidence and the measure of his public respect had split and become two complementary jewels, which had then been placed on opposite banks of that large dark river. And while the jewel on the far bank, namely his literary works, was to the public at large the real treasure, to Ippei, it was nothing more than a pile of rubble. Conversely, while in the eyes of the general public the jewel o
n the near bank, namely his spirit, had already turned to rubble, it was to Ippei alone the only genuine jewel in his crown.

  Furthermore, Ippei—that is, Ippei as he was before the incident—had never attempted to conceal the cultivated man’s cold contempt for the generality of intellectual activities (including in relation to his own literary works). In fact, wasn’t it his own psychological ruin that Ippei longed to achieve through Kōji, rather than the bringing about of some sense of mental cohesion? And that, too, was an artificial, affected, and delicately engineered ruin. Little wonder then that Ippei’s interminably meek smile provided a fresh source of astonishment for Kōji. The chief priest of Taisenji temple maintained that this was the manifestation of Ippei’s spiritual enlightenment. Yūko, on the other hand, preferred to remain silent on the matter.

  Oftentimes, the doctor asked Yūko, “Does your husband sometimes become really irritated? Does he ever give you a difficult time, or annoy you with his own selfishness?”

  The doctor had always greeted Yūko’s negative replies with a genuine look of suspicion. Those kinds of patients were extremely few and far between. Ippei had become quiet and tolerant, he accepted reality as it was, and he answered everything with the same warm, helpless smile.

  Occasionally Kōji would feel unsettled by his smile—constantly and openly conveying as it did Ippei’s sudden loss of hope. Ippei, who in the past had stood head and shoulders above Kōji in terms of his fun-loving ability, now appeared to have outstripped Kōji once more by his uncanny ability to accept his abandonment with such fortitude.

  And what of Yūko?

  Yūko once asked Kōji to bring some talcum powder to the bathroom. She had opened the badly creaking glass door of the dimly lit bathroom a fraction and called Kōji in from where he was in the sitting room. “Kōji! Kōji! I’ve run out of talcum powder—there’s a new can on the top shelf of the closet. Be a darling and bring it in, would you?”

  Possibly owing to the tastes of the house’s former owner, the family bathroom was unusually spacious. The bathing area alone was some eight tatami mats in size, and added to this was a three-mat changing room.

  Kōji had been reluctant to open the glass door, but Yūko had spoken from inside. “It’s all right—you can come in. I don’t mind.”

  As Kōji suspected, Yūko, having bathed, had already changed into a neatly fitting large-patterned cotton yukata, held at the waist by a dark green Hakata-style sash. The upswept hairs on the nape of her neck were moist from the bath steam, and in the dusky light, beads of perspiration glistened alluringly on the surface of her rich skin like evening dew. Kōji recalled the sound of the driving, sultry rain as it pelted the roofs of the greenhouses in the early evening. He saw something strange at Yūko’s feet as she sat there. In the gloomy light, the emaciated body of a naked man lay corpse-like on its side, with closed eyes facing toward the ceiling and its lower half covered in white powder.

  Kōji handed the new can of talcum powder to Yūko, and just as he started to leave, she called him back. “Oh! You are having a bath, aren’t you? It’s a waste of fuel not to use the water. Come on, the water’s lovely and warm.”

  Kōji hovered in the open doorway.

  “Come on in and close the door quickly; he’ll catch his death in this draft. Relax—get undressed and get in.”

  A heap of powder that had already been sprinkled from the new container decorated the palm of Yūko’s hand as she spoke. In the dull light it emitted a somber whiteness, like a poisonous drug. Kōji quickly undressed in a corner of the changing room. The door to the bathroom had been left ajar, probably in order to draw in the warmth produced by the steam, and so he left it open. While he bathed, his attention was drawn in the direction of the changing room. He felt the need for strangely oppressive, solitary, silent bathing, more so even than when he was in prison. There are certainly a great many bizarre rituals in the human world (all of which have been born of necessity)! Yūko sprinkled the remainder of the white powder all over Ippei’s bathed and naked outstretched body, painstakingly and affectionately massaging it in.

  From time to time, her white fingers became visible here and there amid the dark billowing steam; vying with one another at sharp, almost reproachful angles, then continuing their movement in a more languid, hesitant manner.

  Kōji, who had been watching all this from diagonally across the bathtub, suddenly felt a pang of excitement. He had imagined that his body was being caressed all over by those fingers. In reality, however, the flesh that Yūko’s fingers massaged was enveloped in a frigidly indifferent and peacefully warm veil of death. There was no doubt about that. Even from this oblique angle, Kōji was certain of it. Having diligently washed in between Ippei’s toes, Yūko next sprinkled on the white powder and enthusiastically rubbed it in. Now and again her beautiful profile revealed itself clearly through the steam. Her face was aglow, showing a kind of relaxed, self-indulgent pleasure, notwithstanding her fervor, and it appeared that Yūko’s mind had found spiritual repose in this simple chore that produced both subservience and a sense of superiority. Kōji felt as though he was watching the sleeping form of her unchaste soul. He closed his eyes tightly in the bathtub.

  Whether or not she had noticed Kōji’s behavior, for the first time Yūko began talking to him in a cheerful, matter-of-fact tone. “I forgot to ask, but you sent your notice of withdrawal to the university, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. I sent it from prison,” he replied, splashing water noisily.

  “That’s a little rash, don’t you think? Do you intend to bury your whole life in the Kusakado greenhouse?”

  Kōji remained silent in the unpleasantly hot, dark bathwater. He gazed at a strand of Yūko’s long, shedded hair as it formed a ring on the surface of the water. He pushed himself out toward it, scooping it up with his wet chest.

  * * *

  —

  And then came the picnic at the great waterfall. It had been the cause of indecision for the past three weeks. Kōji had no idea why it had been an issue. It certainly didn’t seem as if Ippei had anything to do with it. Kōji knew that Yūko wished for the three of them to go together, and so he made a point of not going to the waterfall during his leisure-time strolls. Then on one particular clear and cool morning, it was suddenly decided that they should set off on a picnic. There were no suitable flowers in the greenhouse to offer to the waterfall shrine. So Yūko had Kōji pick an especially large, single-flowered mountain lily from the cliff behind, and then she wrapped aluminum foil around the base of its stem.

  Yūko was wearing a Java calico blouse and yellow slacks and, because of the rocky mountain paths ahead, had on a pair of flat-heeled Moroccan leather walking shoes. Ippei was in a state of disarray. He was attired in a white open-collared shirt and knickerbockers, checkered socks and slip-ons and a large straw hat. At his side he carried a stout stick. Naturally Kōji, who wore jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, carried the camera and the basket containing their lunch boxes and tea flasks. At normal walking speed, it ought to have taken them about thirty minutes to the waterfall, but going at Ippei’s pace, Kōji estimated it would take at least an hour. In the end, it took some two hours.

  Yūko accompanied Ippei out of the gate and down the hill. From here, there was a good view of the port. There was only one boat lying at anchor. The green hills on the far side of the bay were reflected on the surface of the tranquil body of water, projecting a shape like a draftsman’s curve dissolving into the sea. There were a number of pearl divers’ rafts; toward the back of one small inlet, the blue hull of a scrapped vessel lay half-submerged—listing as it had done when Yūko had first come to these parts. And silver oil tanks. A chorus of cicadas sang out; a small village crouched below them, and in the distance, a cloud of dust kicked up by a bus as it traveled along the prefectural highway quickly enveloped a whole block of shops—the barber’s, the general store,
the haberdashery, the drugstore, the confectioner’s, and the geta store. The lighthouse at the bay entrance, the ice-crushing tower, and the village lookout tower, being the three tallest buildings, lorded it over the even rows of houses. To the east all they could see were the gently sloping mountains that they would soon climb. The trees and the grass had begun to dry out from the morning dew and the previous day’s rain. The rising water vapor and sunlight appeared to completely cover the surface of the mountains and forests in trembling silver leaf. It was extremely quiet, so much so that it seemed as if the mountains and forests were lightly enveloped in some sort of glittering shroud of death.

  From far in the distance they could hear the sound of a quarry compressor.

  “That’s the route we’re taking. You can see it, can’t you? The path follows the river winding its way up through the mountains.”

  Yūko indicated the way with the single-flowered lily she was carrying. The lily extended its glossy white petals as if they were coated in oil and gave out a melancholy fragrance under the strong summer sun. It was messily dyed with brick-colored pollen right up to the edges of its white petals. The inside—all the way deep down—was buff-colored with brilliant dark red spots. The stem that supported this heavy flower was strong and gave it a neat and dignified appearance.

  As if by magic, the landscape took on the elegant shape of the lily. The mountains and the clear sky and the glistening clouds above them now came under the control of this single flower. Each and every color appeared to be diffused, having been condensed into the color of the lily. It was as if the green of the forest was the color of the lily’s stem and leaves; the earth, the color of its pollen; the trunks of the ancient trees, the color of its dark red spots; the glistening clouds, the color of its white petals…