The Frolic of the Beasts

by Yukio Mishima

  Due to the sun, which had yet to go fully down, the promontory on the opposite side of the inlet appeared unnaturally bright green; the distance across the bay became impossible to gauge, and black protrusions—the ships’ masts and the ice-crushing tower, which were only slightly more prominent than the rows of houses on this side—appeared to directly touch the promontory. The crimson reflection extended unexpectedly far into the distance, like sprinkled droplets of ink, and a section of the clouds directly overhead was also faintly tinged with red. The light from this magnificent sunset, which was at once intense and at the same time strangely calm, converged precisely in Ippei’s unmoving pupils, and that minute melancholy image was not only projected into his eyes but also passed through his pupils and seemed to occupy every recess of his hollow interior.

  Thrusting his walking stick into his right hand, he described something like characters in the air with the index finger of his unencumbered left. But the strokes were unduly confused, and try as he might, Kōji was unable to follow the invisible letters being traced in front of him.

  “Why don’t you try saying it,” said Kōji, this time with the deliberate consideration of a doctor speaking to his patient.

  With a dry, rasping voice that passed through his teeth, and with great concentration, Ippei spoke, expressing himself two ways—as he always did when he was afraid of being misunderstood:

  “Death. I want to die.”

  * * *

  —

  As they followed the way home, they saw Yūko coming toward them on the path that went between the green rice paddies. Concerned that they were taking so long to return, she had sent the postmaster’s wife on ahead and come back to meet them. With Yūko’s back to the sun, which had almost gone down, her shadow soon reached their feet as she slowly drew near. The closer she came, the more attractive her heavy lipstick was against her face—the paleness of which was accentuated by the dark blue material of her cotton robe.

  “You’re taking your time, aren’t you?”

  “We’ve been chatting about all sorts of things,” said Kōji.

  “Chatting, you say!”

  With the evening sun just then cast obliquely across her face, Yūko suddenly pulled the corners of her mouth back so that even the fine creases on her thin lips were visible and her lipstick shone in the light, and spoke contemptuously, with a note of deliberate surprise in her voice.

  “It’s nice and cool in the evening. It sounds like there are a lot of cicadas out lately. Anyhow, since we’re here, do you fancy walking a little farther, toward the harbor? Are you tired?”

  Ippei understood Yūko’s question without any real difficulty. His customary smile surfaced below the straw hat as it slowly bobbed from side to side.

  “Well, then, let’s take our time. Thanks for your help. It’s my turn now.”

  She moved between them and, with Ippei on her right side and Kōji on her left, set off walking. Before long, the path that ran due west cut across the prefectural highway and went straight to the harbor.

  “To the family members of the crew of the Tatsumi Maru, please come now and collect your five days’ supply of rice.”

  The sound of the fishing cooperative’s loudspeaker echoed around the hillside; accustomed to such announcements, people usually heard but didn’t listen to them. And yet, when one thought how both the end of the fishing season holiday and the departure of the fishing boats were near at hand, it sounded unusually new.

  Matsukichi’s boat had already set sail toward Hokkaido. A yellow cloud rose in the distance on the prefectural highway, followed by a dull rumbling noise. Half-enveloped in the dust, the body of a passing bus was barely visible. The glowing sky gradually lost its color, and the sun having already vanished behind the promontory in the distance, the headland stared blackly back at them.

  While guiding Ippei, from time to time Yūko’s left hand came into contact with Kōji’s right. Sometimes the contact was soft, and sometimes it was hard and painful. In the end, Yūko’s fingers, groping in the dark, lightly squeezed and then let go of his hand.

  Kōji glanced at Yūko’s face, but her head was facing directly to the front, and in profile, her face had a hard edge to it, as if she were curbing her desires. For a moment, there was a tired convulsive strength in Yūko’s fingers as she squeezed and then released her grip.

  Kōji started to speak. “You know, I’m always thinking that maybe my life is being lived just for his sake.”

  “His? You mean Ippei, right?”

  Seeking to evade the issue, Yūko returned the question, but of course Kōji was referring to Ippei.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he continued, in a heavy, faltering voice. He let his head droop, and gazed at their feet slowly extending alternately forward as they fell in line with Ippei’s pace—like some kind of ceremonial procession—on top of the white path that was just starting to go dark. “A lot of things have happened. But, in the end, I feel like I’ve behaved and lived exactly the way he wanted me to. And that will probably carry on this way from now on as well.”

  Kōji did his best to sound nonchalant, but Yūko’s intuitive power surprised him.

  Her shoulders shuddered slightly. Swiftly turning her keen gaze in his direction, she traced with her eyes the outline of his tense jaw. Without doubt, she immediately saw through the dark, heavy quality given off by his moderate turn of phrase. Kōji recognized in Yūko’s powers of intuition a sign of her love for him, and he felt overjoyed. If that were not the case, then why had they been brought together in an instant by this delicate spider’s thread that was barely visible in the failing light?

  * * *

  —

  Yūko seemed to waver ever so slightly in the face of Kōji’s words, which revealed a quality like a darkly glittering mineral.

  However, there must have been a tacit understanding between them for quite some time even before Kōji spoke.

  They continued to walk at Ippei’s pace, while Yūko closed her eyes with a sweep of her long eyelashes. When she opened them again, the distant embers of the sunset burned like fire in her eyes. Kōji realized then that she had changed, and she was no longer the desultory and insincere woman she had been. She had been transformed into a vibrant woman brimming with immeasurable energy.

  Then she spoke. “Yes, I agree with you. In which case, you’d better come along, Kōji. And so had I. There’s no going back now after all of this.”

  * * *

  —

  When they arrived at the harbor, Ippei, of course, was exhausted, as were they all. The light was failing, and only the crests of the waves in the bay caught the dying light.

  The lighthouse shone brightly, and while it was difficult to tell the extent of the fan-shaped band of light that swept across the harbor and promontory opposite, every two seconds the flash of light clearly illuminated both the vessels that lay at anchor and also the oil tanks on the shore opposite.

  Leaning against an oil drum, Ippei slid down and collapsed into a sitting position. Yūko squatted next to him, while Kōji stood alone to one side. Fanned by the cool evening breeze, the three gazed without seeing at the scenery on the dark shore in the distance.

  “We haven’t been over to the other side yet, have we? Let’s get Teijirō to row us over one of these days in the sculling boat. We should take lots of pictures. The middle of the day would be best, though it may be hot,” said Yūko.

  Epilogue

  I have always been interested in the traditional performing arts of celebration—so much so, in fact, that, having been encouraged in this direction at university by Professor Matsuyama, I decided on the “Study of Celebration and Reciters” as the title of my thesis.

  After graduating, I took a job teaching in a high school, and during my vacation I visited my alma mater and sought the advice of Professor Matsuyama in connection with
my research aims. For me, going on a research field trip was the greatest pleasure. It is fair to say that for a scholar of ethnology, the real delight is not in carrying out one’s studies in the research office, but rather, in having opportunities to spend time in the field.

  I spent one summer in the 1960s traveling the length and breadth of the Izu Peninsula on just this sort of fact-finding trip.

  By its very nature, a peninsula is a repository for all manner of folklore material, into which flow a great many customs. These customs take root and are handed down orally with the result that unexpected folklore discoveries are made in some surprising places. Everywhere one goes in Izu, belief in the traveler’s guardian deity Dōsojin is widespread. Deities such as these, which are known as “Sai no Kami,” are protectors from harm and usually manifest themselves in the form of three-dimensional stone statues—designed to ward off incursions into the area by intruders from other regions. There is even a curious custom whereby, when the catch has been poor, the local children hurl the stone statue into the sea as a means of teasing and taking out their revenge on the gods.

  Interestingly, there are many “Sanbasō” pieces from celebratory Noh dramas remaining in the Izu Peninsula, and this makes it a suitable location for surveying the extent to which songs of blessing and celebration are alive among the coastal-dwelling village people.

  Being interested in the custom practiced in Kuri Village, West Izu, whereby, during a boat-launching ceremony, the young wife and daughter of the boat owner are thrown from the newly constructed vessel into the water (according to one theory—the vestiges of the tradition of human sacrifice), and concerned also with the boat-launching songs that are recited on such occasions, I went first to Kuri Village, following an introduction by a certain person. Timing my visit to coincide with the boat-launching ceremony, I stayed several days there and witnessed this unusual custom with my own eyes and also listened to the songs that were recited to me by the village elders. But the boat launching song had become somewhat popularized, and since it no longer resembled the original from ancient times, I was not at all satisfied with its performance.

  From Kuri I took the bus and traveled due north along the coast road and arrived in the next small fishing village, called Iro. Unable to rely on the good offices of an introducer, I explained the objective of my field trip to the proprietor of the hotel I was staying at and asked whether there was an elder who passed on the oral tradition of reciting old folk songs. The proprietor said that, while he himself did not know, he was on friendly terms with the chief priest of the local Taisenji temple—Kakujin—and that, since the priest himself was interested in matters such as this, it would be more expedient to meet with him.

  As I was tired, I spent that evening in the hotel putting in order the materials I had collated.

  The following day was a hot midsummer’s day, and after breakfast, I slipped on a pair of the hotel’s geta and tottered along the prefectural highway. Turning right, I went past the post office before turning left again and passing through the old main gate of the Rinzai sect Taisenji temple.

  A lot of children were playing in the temple precincts, and while the temple itself looked as though it had been remodeled a number of times, it still retained the majesty of the old architecture, built in the Oei era. Asking to be shown the way, I met the priest Kakujin for the first time.

  During my stay in Iro Village, I was deeply impressed by the priest’s character, and even during that short period, there developed between us a particularly intimate friendship; as for the priest, he no doubt welcomed me as an appreciative acquaintance at the very time he was lamenting the fact that with each passing day the young people of the village were increasingly turning their backs on the customs and traditions of the past.

  Soon after our first meeting, the priest complained to me about how the boatman’s song, which had been preserved by the village shrine, was on the verge of dying out, and sending for the last reciter, he arranged for him to recite the song especially for my benefit. I was truly delighted at this.

  The old fisherman who soon turned up, however, was a simple soul indeed; he made the introductory remark that lately he had been suffering from ill health, the tone of his voice was disappointing, and that this would, in any case, likely be his last recital.

  While the boat event itself had since died out, up until several decades ago a festival was held annually on November 3. The shrine boat Shinkosen Myojin-maru was splendidly decorated; the young villagers would take up its twelve pairs of oars and row around the interior of the bay all day long.

  In the middle of the boat was a room of approximately fifty square feet. Inside it, five singers would recite sacred songs, and when the recital came to an end, dancers dressed in red kimonos performed a monkey dance. This was likely as not a variation of the Noh Sanbasō performance. It seems to be similar to the Sanba Sarugaku performance that still exists throughout northern Japan.

  Twelve songs—beginning with the “Sacred Boat Song”—have been handed down, and it took two days to finish reciting them aboard ship. However, the only one I was able to listen to was the “Sacred Boat Song,” also known as the “Song of the Gods.”

  Before the reciter began his recital, I had an opportunity to copy some of the verses, which were written on an old sheet of calligraphy paper.

  The lyrics begin with “How joyous and happy a celebration. Yes, this is a celebration…” and is a typical celebratory song, devoid of any particularly notable characteristics, found throughout the various regions.

  What a celebration.

  In the snows of early spring,

  Scarlet buds like braided joints of armor

  Turn into cherry blossoms in the city.

  Cascading deutzia in summer

  Becomes the waterfall to the Arashi River.

  When autumn comes,

  The Nishiki River battles through

  The eternally triumphant colors of the maple leaves.

  In winter, the sky clears after the snow…

  The song continues in a similar vein with descriptions of the four seasons, which immediately reminded me of the piece in the Collection of Sacred Celebration Songs called “On the Beach.” It includes the following words: “How pleasant are the valleys!”

  The valley of plums in bloom in spring.

  The neighboring villages are fragrant, too.

  The cool dale of fans in summer

  Enjoy dayflowers in the sedge valley in autumn.

  The dale of tortoise under the snow in winter;

  To find it after a long absence!

  The celebratory song “On the Beach” can also be found in the repertoire of the Kowaka School of Dance. Of course this piece is derived from one in the Collection of Sacred Celebration Songs; however, the version in the Collection of Sacred Celebration Songs clearly praises the city of Kamakura.

  “Now that I have taken my revenge on my enemy and have made a name for myself, I can lay down my swords, bows, and arrows.”

  These words from the “Sacred Boat Song” reminded me of the piece called “The Celebration of a Long Life and Vengeance” in Kumiodori dance. However, the warmongering samurai vengeance theme quickly dissolves into a peaceful chant that celebrates longevity.

  The reciter once again excused his poor voice and started reciting the first line of the “Sacred Boat Song” in a relaxed manner. His voice was unexpectedly beautiful. Although it was somehow melancholy, still it retained the sparkling brightness of a calm sea.

  * * *

  —

  I was thrilled with the materials I had collected relating to the “Sacred Boat Song,” and so I felt like staying on awhile in this village and unearthing more buried folklore materials at my leisure. Chatting with the priest during my frequent visits to Taisenji, I searched for clues in everything he said, clues
that might lead to still further discoveries.

  It was my fifth night since I came to the village. Having been treated to some sake at the temple and while talking with the priest about this and that, my attention was drawn in an unexpected direction by an anecdote he shared. Straying from my scholarly interests, I was seized with a burning curiosity about an incident that happened in this village two years ago. It involved a young man who, together with a married woman, strangled the woman’s husband. The husband had been suffering from aphasia—the illness caused in the first place two years earlier as a result of an injury inflicted by the young man. Pressing the priest, I persuaded him to tell me everything he knew about it. Strangely, the priest shared his sympathy equally with each of these three characters, and in particular, my interest was considerably piqued by the woman called Yūko.

  Even with the benefit of the priest’s detailed explanation, both Yūko’s appearance and her character remained enveloped in a veil of obscurity and the only image I could conjure of her was her thin lips, adorned—as they always were—with heavy lipstick.

  This vague image, which was so difficult to grasp, was for me just like an old and beautiful, and yet mysterious, piece of folklore that had been buried, and what a valuable scholarly discovery it would be, if only I could capture it now, when it was on the point of being lost—having been passed down in the utmost secrecy.

  Then at last, the priest suggested he show me a photograph that was in his possession. As he stood up to open the box where it was kept, I felt overwhelmed with feelings of both hope and unease. Researchers like me often experience disappointment on field trips when, leaving aside the collation of data relating to the oral transmission of language and thought, we are dismayed to find that a particular ancient manuscript that has been described to us in glowing terms actually turns out to be nothing remarkable.