To the Spring Equinox and Beyond

  "Are they?" I replied. "That's nice." But I did not immediately rise from my seat.

  "Well, let's see," said Chiyoko, moving toward Takagi and taking a seat beside him.

  I asked her from my seat whether they were still swimming.

  "Yes, it's quite interesting. Come and look."

  Each octopus put its eight legs together and with its body elongated went straight ahead, pausing momentarily after each glide until it collided against a plank of the boat. Some of the octopuses ejected a black ink, just as squid do. I bent forward merely to glance at the sight and soon sat back down, but Chiyoko remained at Takagi's side.

  "That's enough octopus," my uncle said to the boatman.

  "Want to go back?" the man asked.

  What looked like a few bamboo cages were floating in the distance, and my uncle, hoping to give some variety to the single kind of catch we had had so far on the trip, made the boatman row over to one of them. All of us stood up at once in the boat to look into the cage. There we found fish seven or eight inches long swimming in every direction within the narrow confines of their watery cage. Some of them had on their scales a blue sheen indistinguishable from the blue of the water, and these shone as though the tiny waves that the fish made as they rushed to and fro were sparkling transparently through their flesh.

  "Try to scoop one up," Takagi said and had Chiyoko grab the handle of a large net. For the fun of it she took the net and tried moving it in the water, but didn't get anywhere. Takagi offered her his hand, and together they rummaged around with great difficulty inside the cage. But the effort fell far short of scooping up a fish, and soon Chiyoko returned the net to the boatman. With the same net he picked out as many fish as my uncle ordered him to.

  Again we were on the beach, glad to have relieved the monotony of the catch of eerie-looking octopuses by having a variety of fish—grunts, sea bass, and black bream.

  That night I returned to Tokyo alone. My mother was detained by everyone and consented to stay another few days at Kamakura on condition that Goichi or someone else see her home. I wondered how she could settle down so good-naturedly just by their persuading her, and my nerves, which were already on edge, were further irritated by her being so at home.

  I have not seen Takagi at all since then. The triangular relationship involving Chiyoko and Takagi and me developed no further after that. As the weakest of the three, I escaped from the whirlpool halfway, as though I knew beforehand the ultimate workings of fate, and so my story must be quite disappointing to a listener. I feel somewhat like a fire fighter who's put down his standard too hastily, before the fire's been extinguished. My words may suggest I took the trouble of going to Kamakura with some object in mind from the very start, but even I, jealous in spite of my deficiency in competing, had an adequate portion of conceit flickering somewhere in my gloomy mind. I've made quite a study of this contradiction. Because I did not dare to make thorough use of my self-conceit on Chiyoko, however, I found different thoughts and feelings muddling in one after another to occupy my mind, so that I was pestered by their intrusion.

  Sometimes it seemed to me that Chiyoko loved me as though I were the only person in the world. And even then I couldn't make a move. Yet whenever it occurred to me to close my eyes to the future and take a desperate step, she almost always escaped from my reach and assumed a look no different from a stranger's. During the two days I stayed at Kamakura, this ebb and flow of the tide occurred a few times. And occasionally I even had the dim suspicion smoldering in me that she had voluntary control over these changes in herself, intentionally coming toward me at one time and removing herself at another. And not only that. There were a number of instances when after immediately interpreting her words and conduct in one way, I could interpret them in a totally different way, so that I really did not know which interpretation was correct. I felt vexed by my vain endeavor to reach a definite conclusion.

  During those two days I seem to have been enticed by a woman I had no intention of marrying. And as long as that Takagi kept hanging around the least bit in my sight, I was in real fear of being enticed to the very end against my will. I've already said I wasn't competing with him, but to prevent any misunderstanding, I'm repeating it again. I must assert that if the three of us in our triangular struggle went wild in a whirlpool of desire or love or tenderness, the force that would move me to act would certainly not be the spirit of competition trying to triumph over Takagi. I affirm that this is the same nervous reaction which makes one who looks down from a high tower feel, along with the sensation of awe, that he can't help but jump. From the outward result—a triumph over Takagi or a defeat by him—it might look as if we had competed, but the power moving me is one quite different from the competitive spirit. Moreover, it never came over me if Takagi was not in sight. During those days I felt the terrible flashes of that weird power. So I definitely resolved to leave Kamakura at once.

  I'm such a weakling I'm unable to bear a novel that fully incites its readers. And still less am I able to put into practice the actions in that novel. The moment I discovered my sentiments were turning into a kind of novel, I became astonished and returned to Tokyo. While I was on the train, I felt half of me was superior, the other half inferior. In that fairly empty second-class coach, I imagined various sequences to the novel I had started writing and had torn to shreds. The sea, the moon, and the beach were there. And the shadow of a young man and that of a young woman. At first the man raged and the woman wept. And then the woman raged and the man pacified her. At last the two held hands and walked along the silent sands. Or there was a framed picture and straw mats and a cool breeze. There two young men engaged in a meaningless dispute. The words brought blood to their cheeks, and in the end both were driven to using language affecting their integrity. And finally they stood and fought with their fists. Or. . . . As in a play, scene after scene was depicted before my eyes. I was all the more happy for having lost the opportunity of trying to experience any one of these scenes. Others may ridicule me for acting like an old man. If they call someone who appeals only to poetry without carrying through any action in the world "an old man," I am content to be ridiculed as such. But if it is an old man whose poetry has dried up and withered, that comment I refuse to accept. I'm always struggling for poetry.

  I imagined the state of mind I might be in after returning home, afraid that I might be even more irritated than I had been at Kamakura, where right before my eyes was the cause of my irritation. And I uselessly pictured myself in the unbearable pain of being annoyed all alone with no opponent to contend with. By chance, though, the results were turned in another direction.

  As I had hoped, it was fairly easy for me to bring back the usual quiet, composure, and indifference to my lonely upstairs room at home. I hung a mosquito net with its fresh odor of flax in the best room in the house and lay there enjoying the sound of a wind-bell under the eaves. In the evening I took a walk along the streets and returned home carrying a potted flowering plant. Since my mother wasn't there, the maid, Saku, took care of everything. When I sat down to my first meal at home after returning from Kamakura and as I saw Saku sitting properly before me ready to serve me with a black-lacquered tray on her lap, I was freshly struck by the difference between her and the sisters now at Kamakura. She was not the least bit attractive, but her figure—she apparently knew nothing except how to sit formally in my presence—made me aware of how modest she looked, how reserved, how she could move one to pity. She was sitting politely before me as if she had seemingly taken it for granted it was too presumptuous of her in her humility even to think about what love was. It was with unaccustomed tenderness that I spoke to her. I asked her how old she was. Nineteen, she replied. And suddenly I asked her if she didn't want to get married. She merely looked down and blushed, and that made me feel sorry for my blunt inquiry. Words had seldom been spoken between her and me except for necessary things. It was not till this moment that, as a reaction to the remembrances I had broug
ht back from Kamakura, I became aware of the womanliness in the maid serving us at home. Of course "love" is not a word that can possibly be used between her and me. It was just that I loved the calm, easy, modest atmosphere emanating from her.

  That I was able to receive some comfort from a maid sounds odd even to me. And yet reflecting back now and thinking of no other cause for that comfort, I have to think all the same it was Saku—or rather the aspect of womanhood represented by her at that moment—who had calmed my mind, which was apt to be irritated even by some imaginary incitement. I confess that from time to time the scenes at Kamakura appeared before my eyes, scenes in which of course human beings were acting. But it was a happy sign for me that those actions were apparently far removed from me, their interests never coinciding with my own.

  I went upstairs and began putting my bookshelves in order. Though my mother, fond of cleanliness as she is, always takes care to dust and sweep thoroughly, I found as I rearranged the books one by one a thin collection of dust behind them which my mother could not have seen. So it took a fairly long time rearranging all the books. I had undertaken the task as something to occupy my time on a hot day, so I moved along as slowly as a snail. I planned to spend as much time as I wished, intending to indulge myself by reading any book that happened to interest me enough. Saku heard the untimely sound of the duster, and her face suddenly appeared along the stairway, her hair in the ginkgo-leaf style. I had her use a dustcloth over a section of the bookshelves. But I soon made her go downstairs, since I felt sorry to have her continue helping me on a task I didn't know when I'd finish. For about an hour I went on taking down books and putting them back, and then I felt a little tired. I was resting, smoking a cigarette, when Saku again showed her face on the staircase. She told me that she'd be glad to be of help. I wanted to have her do something for me, but unfortunately, the books I was arranging were those she could not handle, since she had no knowledge of the Western alphabet. I felt bad to have to tell her that there was nothing for her to do and sent her back downstairs.

  There's no need to give a detailed account of Saku. I spoke about her only because I remembered her actions in connection with the events I mentioned before. After I finished my cigarette, I set about my task again. This time I went straight through the second shelf without Saku's disturbing my solitary world. Then I happened to discover at the back of a shelf a strange book I had long ago borrowed from a friend and had carelessly forgotten to return. It was a rather thin book covered with dust that had slipped behind some others to remain unnoticed until that moment.

  The friend who lent me the book had a passion for literature. I had once talked with him about novels and had said that a man given to thought more than anything else would make a dull character for a novel because he would merely ponder everything and would lack the courage to translate his thoughts into some striking action. I had been tempted to say such a thing to him because I had often thought that the reason why novels were usually not the kind of book I enjoyed reading was that my own way of sitting around and thinking all the time disqualified me from being a character in one. Whereupon my friend pointed to the book on his desk and told me that the hero in that novel had remarkable powers of thought combined with decisive action of the most terrible kind. I asked him what was written in it. He told me only to read it and handed it to me. Its title in German was Gedanke. My friend explained that it was a translation of a Russian novel. Accepting the slim volume from him, I again asked what the story was about. He replied that that wasn't the important thing, explaining that it would be difficult to understand the book as being about jealousy, revenge, mischief, intrigue, serious action, a madman's reasoning, or even a normal man's calculation. He just said that since there was spectacular action going on with spectacular thought, I should at least read it and see.

  I did bring the book home, but I didn't feel like reading it. Not being an enthusiastic reader of novels, I had made little of novelists in general. Furthermore, what my friend had told me failed to arouse in me any real interest in the book.

  I had forgotten the entire incident and, quite unaware of it, had merely pulled out the book from behind the bookshelf to wipe off the thick layer of dust on it. With my eyes on the German letters of the title, I was reminded of my friend who was so fond of literature and of what he had told me at that time. A sudden curiosity came over me—from where I couldn't tell—and at once I opened the book to the first page and began reading. Inside I discovered a story of real terror.

  A man loved a woman, but the woman ignored him and married one of his acquaintances, so with a grudge against her he plotted to kill the husband. But not merely kill him. The murderer would gain no real satisfaction unless the crime occurred before the wife's eyes. Furthermore, he would have to kill the man in so complicated a way that the wife, seeing him do it and knowing that he was the murderer, could do nothing but look on as a spectator, unable to take any action against him. To accomplish this he devised a scheme. The opportunity to carry it out occurred at a dinner party, where he began to feign sudden attacks of violent fits. His performance as a madman was so realistic that everyone present believed him quite insane. He secretly congratulated himself on the success of his ruse. After repeating his act a few times in the social arena, where he was easily able to attract attention, he succeeded in gaining the reputation of being a dangerous man susceptible to fits of mental derangement. His intention was to perform through these elaborate preparations an act of homicide that no one would be able to do anything about. As his frequent fits began to darken the lively atmosphere of the parties he attended, many homes which until then had been on familiar terms with him cut him off completely. But that didn't bother him in the least. He still had one house freely available to him, the very home of his friend and the friend's wife, the former of whom he was to kick into the region of death.

  One day he casually knocked at his friend's door. There, apparently whiling away the time in idle gossip, he was secretly watching for the chance to pounce upon the man. Picking up a heavy paperweight lying on a desk, he suddenly asked, "Could you kill a man with this?" His friend, of course, didn't take the question seriously. Without waiting for a response, the man put all his strength behind the paperweight and struck dead the beloved husband before the very eyes of his wife. The murderer, on a charge of insanity, was sent to a madhouse. With remarkable powers of thought, discretion, and reason, he vigorously pleaded his sanity, basing his arguments on the circumstances I've just told you about. But then he began to doubt his own self-vindication. Moreover, he tried to vindicate his own doubts. Was he, after all, sane or insane?

  With that book in my hand I trembled in fear.

  My head seems to have been created to restrain my heart, which seems the normal way of man. Judging from the results of my conduct, I haven't had much to regret in my past. It is, however, enormously painful, as everyone knows, to have your heart, whenever it gets stirred up, kept under the pressure of your solemn head. Obstinate as I am, I'm rather short-tempered in a negative way, so I've seldom suffered the pain you feel when your heart gets worked up and is suddenly restrained by reason, like a wildly careening automobile that's suddenly checked. Even so, I have on occasion felt within me a combustion of vital energy that could only be described as a powerful twist given to the axis of life. Whenever a struggle occurred between these two forces, I used to obey the orders of my head, thinking at times my head could rule because it was strong, thinking at other times that my heart obeyed because it was weak. And knowing somehow that the struggle was an inevitable one for my life, I could not free myself from the secret awe of its being a struggle that would consume my life.

  Therefore, the hero of Gedanke overwhelmed me. He had thought no more of his friend's life than he did an insect's, and he refused to admit any contradiction or antipathy between reason and feeling. He felt no repentance whatever in using his entire intellect as fuel for revenge and letting it serve as the means for the dextrous ac
complishment of a brutal murder. He was a superb actor who with careful control of his thoughts could pour over the head of his antagonist the venomous blood of vengeance. Either that, or he was a madman possessed of a combination of brain power and passion beyond those of ordinary mortals. When I compared myself with him, I envied his ability to act so intently without reflection. At the same time I was so terrified by all of this that I had broken out into a sweat. How thoroughly satisfying it must be to act that way, I thought. But I also thought that after such a deed one's conscience must be put through unbearable tortures.

  Nevertheless, I wondered what would happen if the jealousy I had of Takagi took some strange course and grew a hundred times more powerful in consuming me. But I could not imagine how I would feel at that moment. At first I was about to abandon my thoughts simply from the standpoint that I would never be able to follow the novel's hero, since I had not been made that way. But then it occurred to me that I myself might, in fact, be capable of attaining the same degree of revenge. I finally began to believe that only a person like myself who was usually undecided while suffering from the conflict between head and heart would be bold enough to commit such an atrocity coolly, methodically, calculatedly. I myself don't know why I ultimately came to entertain such an idea. But when I hit on that thought, an unusual mood unexpectedly came over me. It was not simply one of terror or misgiving or unpleasantness— it seemed far more complex than these. From the way in which it revealed itself on the whole to my heart, it was similar to the mood of a man who, while otherwise gentle in nature, has become emboldened by alcohol and feels satisfied in being capable of doing anything because of the state he is in, yet at the same time is made aware that he has degraded himself into a being far more inferior than he usually is, but that since the degradation has been brought about by liquor, there is no way of escaping no matter how much he tries to ward it off, so he abandons himself to despair. In this strange mood, I was lost in the wide-eyed daydream of taking a heavy paperweight and striking Takagi from the top of his skull to the bottom, all before Chiyoko's eyes. Suddenly amazed, I stood up.