Authors: Yukio Mishima
Spring Snow (17 page)
There was a light knock at the door. Iinuma reacted with such speed that he crashed painfully into a bookcase. Finally, however, he managed to turn the key in the lock. Miné turned slightly and slipped through the doorway. When Iinuma had turned the lock behind her, he took her by the shoulders and propelled her unceremoniously toward the back of the library. Whatever the reason, his mind was fixed on the dirty gray snow he had seen shoveled into piles along the outside wall of the library on his way there. Though he had no time or inclination to speculate about this, he was consumed with the need to violate Miné in the corner that was closest to the dirty snow.
Driven to savagery by his fantasies, he was brutal with the girl. The more he pitied her, the crueler he became. And when in the midst of it all he realized that his viciousness was a passion to revenge himself on Kiyoaki, he was overcome by an indescribable misery. Since time was short and silence imperative, Miné let Iinuma have his way without offering any resistance. But the meekness of her submission only tormented Iinuma the more, for her gentle manner bespoke a quiet understanding of himself as someone very similar to her.
Still, this was by no means the only reason for her gentle compliance. Miné was cheerfully promiscuous. And for her the total awkwardness of his manner—his attempt to intimidate her by his silence, his clumsy, fumbling hands—proved the reality of his desire. She never dreamed that he might be pitying her.
Lying there in the dark, Miné suddenly felt the cold like a sword thrust under the spread skirt of her kimono. Looking up through the gloom, she saw shelves laden with books, each tucked into its case, the gold of its title dulled by the passage of time. They seemed to be pressing in on her from all sides. Speed was essential. Tadeshina had briefed her down to the last detail so that she would be clear on every point, and all that was required of her in this brief moment was to act without hesitation. She saw her role in life as that of someone who was ready to give her body freely to soothe and comfort. This was enough for her. And her small ripe body, with its firm flesh and smooth, flawless skin, was pleased to give satisfaction.
It would be no exaggeration to say that she was fond of Iinuma. Whenever she was desired, Miné had a wonderful knack of discovering the good points in her suitor. She had never joined the other maids in their contemptuous mockery of Iinuma, and so his virility, so long harassed and ridiculed, at last received its due in her woman’s heart.
She suddenly had a vision of a temple holiday in all its gaudy festivity: the acetylene lights with their glare and acrid smell, the balloons and pinwheels, the gaily-colored candies. . . .
She opened her eyes in the darkness.
“What are you staring at?” asked Iinuma in irritation.
The rats were scurrying around in the ceiling again. Their movements were almost soundless, and yet they held a note of desperate urgency. They seemed to be rushing frantically through their dark domain in a frenzy that dashed them from one end of it to the other.
15
ALL THE MAIL
that was delivered to the Matsugae household was handled according to a fixed ritual: the steward Yamada took charge of it and stacked it neatly on a gold-lacquered tray engraved with the family crest. This was then borne into the presence of the Marquis and Marquise. Since Satoko was aware of this procedure, she had taken the precaution of entrusting her note to Tadeshina, who, in turn, was to give it to Iinuma.
So it was that Iinuma, in the middle of studying for his final examinations, took the time first to meet Tadeshina and then to hand over Satoko’s love letter to Kiyoaki.
Though the morning after that snowstorm was clear and bright, I just couldn’t help thinking about what had happened the day before. In my heart it seemed as if the snow had not stopped, but was falling still. And the snowflakes seemed to merge into the form of Kiyo’s face. How I wished that I could live somewhere where the snow fell every day of the year so that I would never stop thinking of you, Kiyo.If we were living in Heian times, you would have composed a poem for me, wouldn’t you? And I would have had to offer one of my own in reply. I am shocked to think that although I have been learning
waka
since my childhood, at a time like this I can’t set down a single poem to express my feelings. Is it because I lack the talent?Why do you believe that I’m so happy? Just because I have found someone who is kind enough not to be upset by whatever I say or do, no matter how capricious? That would be the same as thinking that I enjoy treating Kiyo however I choose—and nothing could cause me greater pain than to know that you believe this.No, what really makes me happy is your gentleness. You were able to see through that whim of mine the other day. You could see how desperate I secretly felt. And without a word of reproach you came with me on that ride through the snow and you fulfilled the dream that I had buried deep inside me with so much embarrassment. That is what I mean by your gentleness.Kiyo, even now, remembering what happened, I feel my body tremble with joy and shame. Here in Japan, we think of the spirit of snow as a woman—the snow fairy. But I remember that in Western fairy tales I read it’s always a handsome young man. And so I think of Kiyo as the spirit of snow, so masculine in your uniform. I think of you as overwhelming me. To feel myself dissolve into your beauty and freeze to death in the snow—no fate could be sweeter.
At the end, Satoko had written: “Please be kind enough not to forget to throw this letter into the fire.”
Up to this final line, the style was smooth and graceful, for Satoko never expressed herself other than with elegance. Nevertheless, Kiyoaki was startled by the sensuous vigor that seemed to flare up here and there.
After he had read it, his immediate reaction was that it was the kind of letter that ought to transport a man into ecstasy. On reflection, however, it seemed more of a textbook exercise from Satoko’s classes in the art of elegance. He felt she wanted to teach him that elegance overrides any question of indecency.
If the two of them had really fallen in love that snowy morning, how could they bear to let a day pass without meeting, if only for a moment or two? What could be more natural? Yet Kiyoaki was not inclined to follow his impulses in such a way. Oddly enough, living only for one’s emotions, like a flag obedient to the breeze, demands a way of life that makes one balk at the natural course of events, for this implies being altogether subservient to nature. The life of the emotions detests all constraints, whatever their origin, and thus, ironically enough, is apt eventually to fetter its own instinctive sense of freedom.
Kiyoaki delayed seeing Satoko again, though not to practice self-denial. Still less was he guided by a profound knowledge of the subtleties of emotion which are only open to those already experienced in love. His behavior was simply the result of his imperfect grasp of the art of elegance, and was still so immature, almost bordering on vanity, that he envied Satoko her serene freedom, wantonness even, and was made to feel inferior.
Just as a stream returns to its normal course after a flood, Kiyoaki’s predilection for suffering began to reassert itself. His dreamy nature could be as demanding as it was capricious, so much so, in fact, that he was angered and frustrated at the lack of obstacles to his love. The meddlesome assistance of Tadeshina and Iinuma provided a ready target, and he came to view their maneuvers as inimical to the purity of his feelings.
His pride was hurt when he realized that this was all he had to rely on as the fierce pain and agony of love spun their coil. Such pain ought to be fit material for weaving a magnificent tapestry, but Kiyoaki had only a tiny domestic loom with nothing but pure white thread at his disposal.
“Where are they leading me,” he wondered, “at this very moment when I am gradually, genuinely, falling in love?”
But even as he decided that what he felt was love, his contrary nature was asserting itself once more.
For any ordinary young man, the memory of Satoko’s kiss would have been enough to lift him into ecstasies of joy and satisfaction. But for this young man, for whom complacency was already too common a condition, it was a memory that caused greater heartache with every passing day.
No matter what else might be true, the happiness he had felt at that moment had the brilliant fire of a rich jewel. There was no doubt about that. It was engraved on his memory. In the midst of a formless, colorless snowy desert, with his emotions in turmoil, not knowing how he had embarked on this journey or how it should end, the warm glow of that jewel had been like a compass point.
His sense of discrepancy between the memory of that happiness and his present heartache grew steadily, and its effect on him deepened; he finally lapsed into the black melancholy that had been so congenial before. The kiss ceased to be anything more than another reminder of Satoko’s humiliating mockery.
He decided to write a reply to her letter as chill as he could make it. He tore up several sheets of stationery in the attempt, making a fresh start each time. When he had finally composed what he thought was the ultimate in unfeeling billets-doux and put down his writing brush, he suddenly became aware of the extent of his achievement. Without intending to, he had hit upon the style of a man of great worldly experience, having built on the letter of accusation he had once sent her. This time the very thought of such outright deception was so painful that he began yet another letter. In it, without any attempt at qualification, he conveyed the joy of experiencing a kiss for the first time. It was filled with boyish passion. He closed his eyes as he slipped it into an envelope and ran the tip of his tongue over the flap. The glue tasted vaguely sweet, like medicine.
16
THE
M
ATSUGAE ESTATE
was most famous for its autumn display of maple leaves, but its cherry blossoms were also the object of much admiration. Cherry trees were scattered among the pines in the long rows of trees that flanked the drive to the main gate for more than half a mile. The best view was from the second-floor balcony of the Western-style house. Standing there, one could take in all the cherry blossoms on the Matsugae estate in a single sweeping glance; some bloomed along the drive, several trees stood among the huge gingko trees in the front garden, some ringed the small grassy knoll where Kiyoaki’s Otachimachi ritual had taken place, and a few grew on the maple hill beyond the pond. Many discriminating viewers preferred this arrangement to an overwhelming display of massed blossoms in the middle of a garden.
From spring to early summer, the three principal events in the Matsugae household were the Doll Festival in March, the cherry blossom viewing in April, and the Shinto festival in May. But since the prescribed year of mourning following the death of His Imperial Highness had not yet elapsed, it was decided that this year the March and April festivals would be curtailed to strictly family observances—much to the disappointment of the women in the house. For throughout the winter, as happened every year, all sorts of rumors had been filtering down from the quarters of the senior staff about plans for the Doll Festival and the blossom viewing—such as the story that a troupe of professional entertainers would be brought in. The house was always full of such tales, the kind of speculation that gave a thrill to simple souls accustomed to making a great deal out of the arrival of springtime. To have their expectations blighted in this way seemed like a blight on spring itself.
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