Authors: Yukio Mishima
Spring Snow (57 page)
He heard women’s voices in a flurry of conversation. Then silence again. More time passed. When the door slid open once more, the senior nun was alone.
“I’m sorry. Your request for a meeting cannot be granted. No matter how many times you come here, sir, I shall be forced to give you the same answer. I will arrange for a servant of the convent to accompany you, so please be kind enough to leave.”
Helped by the janitor, who was fortunately a strong man, he went back down the road to where his rickshaw was waiting.
53
HONDA ARRIVED AT THE INN
in Obitoké late on the night of February 26. As soon as he saw how critical Kiyoaki’s condition was, he was all for taking him back to Tokyo at once, but his friend would not hear of it. He discovered that the local doctor who had been summoned earlier in the evening had said that the symptoms indicated pneumonia.
Kiyoaki pleaded with him desperately. He wanted his friend to go to Gesshu next day, to talk to the Abbess, make every effort to soften her attitude. Since Honda was not involved, his words might perhaps have some effect on Her Reverence. And if she should relent, he wanted Honda to take him up to the temple.
Honda resisted for a time, but finally gave in, agreeing to delay their departure by one day. At all costs he would try to obtain an interview with the Abbess next day and do all he could on Kiyoaki’s behalf. But he made his friend promise faithfully that if she should still refuse, he would go back to Tokyo with him immediately. Honda stayed up all that night, changing the wet dressings on Kiyoaki’s chest. By the light of the dim lamp in the room, he saw that his skin, white as it was, now had a slight tinge of red from the dressings that covered it.
The final exams were only three days away. He had had every reason to expect his parents to be opposed to his making any trip at all right now. But when he had shown Kiyoaki’s telegram to his father, surprisingly he had told him to go ahead, without asking any further details. And his mother had quite agreed. Justice Honda had once been ready to sacrifice his career for the sake of his old colleagues who were being forced to retire because the system of life tenure was being abolished. Now he intended to teach his son the value of friendship. During the train ride to Osaka, Honda had worked intently, and even now, as he held watch at Kiyoaki’s bedside, he had his logic notebook open beside him.
In one circle of pale yellow light the lamp above them caught the ultimate symbols of two diametrically opposed worlds to which these young men had given themselves. One of them lay critically ill for the sake of love. The other was preparing himself for the grave demands of reality.
Kiyoaki, half asleep, was swimming in a chaotic sea of passion, seaweed clutching at his legs. Honda was dreaming of the world as a creation securely based on a foundation of order and reason. And so throughout a bitter night in early spring, in the room of an old country inn, these two young men’s heads were close together under the light, one coolly rational, one burning with fever, each in turn finally bound by the rhythm of his own particular world.
In all their friendship, Honda had never been more aware than he was now of the utter impossibility of seeing into Kiyoaki’s thoughts. He lay in front of him, but his spirit was off racing somewhere else. Sometimes he would deliriously call Satoko’s name, and his cheeks would flood with color. His face lost its haggard look and instead seemed more than normally healthy. His skin glowed as if it were fine ivory with a fire inside it. But Honda knew that there was no way for him to reach that essence. Here before him, he thought, was passion in its truest sense. The kind of thing that would never take possession of him. But more than that, he thought, wasn’t it true that no passion whatever would succeed in sweeping him away? For he realized that his nature seemed to be lacking in the quality that made this possible. It would never assent to such an invasion. His affection for his friend was deep, he was willing enough to weep when required—but as for feelings, he was lacking in something there. Why did he instinctively channel all his energies into the maintaining of a suitable inner and outer decorum? Why, unlike Kiyoaki, had he been somehow unable to open his soul to the four great inchoate elements of fire, wind, water, and earth?
His eyes returned to the notebook in front of him and his own neat, precise handwriting.
Aristotle’s formal logic dominated European thought until almost the end of the Middle Ages. This is divided into two periods, the first of which is called “Old Logic.” The works expounded were the “Theses” and the “Categories” from the
Organon
. The second is called “New Logic.” It may be said that this period received its initial impetus from the complete Latin translation of the
Organon
which was finished by the middle of the twelfth century . . .
He could not help thinking that these words, like inscriptions cut into stone exposed to the weather, would fall from his mind, flake by flake.
54
HONDA HAD HEARD
that the convent day began early, so he shook himself out of a brief doze just as dawn was breaking. After a hasty breakfast, he told the maid to hire a rickshaw and got ready to leave.
Kiyoaki looked up at him from his bed, tears in his eyes. All he could manage was a look of entreaty as he lay with his head on the pillow, but it pierced Honda like a knife. Up until that moment, his intention had been to make a perfunctory visit to Gesshu and then get his gravely ill friend back to Tokyo as quickly as he could. But once he had seen the look in Kiyoaki’s eyes, he knew that whatever the cost, he had to make every effort to effect a meeting between his friend and Satoko.
Fortunately it was a warm springlike morning, perhaps a good omen. As his rickshaw approached the convent entrance, he noticed that a man who was sweeping there took one look at him from a distance, abruptly put down his broom and rushed inside. His school uniform, which was the same as Kiyoaki’s, must have put the man on guard, he thought, making him hurry in to sound the warning. The nun who appeared at the door had an expression of forbidding determination even before he could say who he was.
“Excuse me, Sister. My name is Honda. I am sorry to intrude, but I have come all the way from Tokyo because of this matter of Kiyoaki Matsugae. I would be extremely grateful if the Reverend Abbess would consent to see me.”
“Please wait for a few moments,” the nun replied.
He stood there for a long time on the front step, and then while he was involved in turning over in his mind the various counter-arguments to be used in the event of a refusal, the same nun surprised him by coming back and conducting him to a parlor inside. Hope, however faint, began to stir in him.
In the parlor he was again left to himself for a long time. The song of warblers came from the inner garden, though the sliding door was fully shut and he had no view. In the shadows he could just make out the intricate paper crest design of cloud-and-chrysanthemum on each door catch. The flower arrangement in the
tokonoma
alcove combined rape blossoms and peach buds. The bright yellow flowers seemed to pulse with the vigor of the spring countryside, and the dull bark and pale green leaves of the peach branch brought out the beauty of its swelling buds. The sliding doors were plain white, but he noticed a folding screen by the wall that seemed to be something precious, and he walked over to it.
tokonoma
alcove combined rape blossoms and peach buds. The bright yellow flowers seemed to pulse with the vigor of the spring countryside, and the dull bark and pale green leaves of the peach branch brought out the beauty of its swelling buds. The sliding doors were plain white, but he noticed a folding screen by the wall that seemed to be something precious, and he walked over to it.
He inspected it in detail. It was a screen depicting scenes of each of the twelve months of the year, done predominantly in the style of the Kano school, but enriched with the vivid colors that were traditionally Yamato.
The flow of the seasons began with spring at the right-hand edge of the screen. Courtiers enjoyed themselves in a garden beneath pines and white plum trees. A mass of golden cloud hid all but a fraction of a pavilion surrounded by a cypress hedge. A little to the left, young colts of various colors frolicked about. The pond in the garden at some point became a paddy and here young girls were at work planting rice shoots. A small waterfall burst from the golden cloud and tumbled down in two stages into another pond. The green shade of the grass at the water’s edge bespoke the arrival of summer. Courtiers were hanging white paper pendants for the Midsummer Purification on the trees and bushes round the pond, with minor officials and crimson-robed servants in attendance. Deer were grazing contentedly in the garden of a shrine, and a white horse was being led out through its red torii gate. Imperial guards, bows slung over their shoulders, were busy making preparations for a festival procession. And the red maple leaves already reflected in the pond foretold the chill of winter that would soon take its toll. Then a bit farther on, still more courtiers were setting out on a day’s falconry in gold-tinted snow. The sky too was golden, shining through the snowy branches of a bamboo grove. A white dog was in baying pursuit of a partridge with a touch of red at its neck; it streaked through the dry reeds like an arrow and escaped up into the winter sky. The hawks at the courtiers’ wrists kept their arrogant eyes riveted on the fleeing partridge.
He returned to his place after a leisurely examination of the Tsukinami screen, but there was still no sign of the Abbess.
The nun returned, knelt down, and served him with tea and cake. She told him that the Abbess would be with him in just a few minutes, and asked him to make himself comfortable while he waited.
A small box decorated with a picture relief lay on the table. It must have been a product of the convent, and furthermore, there was something unskilled about its workmanship that made him wonder if Satoko’s inexperienced hand had been at work on it. The paper glued to the sides and the padded picture mounted on the lid were both highly colored after the taste of the old Imperial Court, lavish and oppressively gaudy. In the picture, a boy was chasing a butterfly. As he raced after the red-and-purple-winged insect, his face, his satiny white skin and his plump nakedness all suggested the sensuous grace of a court doll. After his ride through the dark, early spring fields and up the mountain through the still desolate woods, he felt that here in this shadowy parlor at Gesshu he had finally experienced the heavy, syrupy sweetness that was the essence of womanhood.
He heard the rustle of clothing, and then Her Reverence herself came in through the doorway, leaning on the arm of the senior nun. He stood up straight, but was unable to control the beating of his heart.
The Abbess must certainly have been advanced in years, but the small features in the clear-skinned face above the austere purple robe seemed to be carved out of fine yellow boxwood and showed no trace of age. They had a warm expression as she now sat down opposite him. The old nun took a seat to one side.
“So, they tell me that you have come all the way from Tokyo?”
“Yes, Your Reverence.” He had difficulty in getting his words out in front of her.
“This gentleman says that he is a school friend of Mr. Matsugae,” said the old nun by way of contribution.
“Ah yes!” said the Abbess. “To tell the truth, we have been feeling so sorry for the Marquis’s son. However . . .”
“Matsugae has a terrible fever. He’s in bed back at the inn. I received a telegram from him and I came down here as quickly as I could. Today I’ve come here in his place to make the request he asked me to make.” At last Honda found himself able to talk freely.
This, he thought, was most probably the way a young lawyer felt when he stood before the court. Regardless of the mood of the judges, he must plunge ahead, wholly intent on his plea and concerned only with the vindication of his client.
Other books
Stuka Pilot by Hans-Ulrich Rudel
Dearest Vicky, Darling Fritz by John Van der Kiste
Bonjour Tristesse by Francoise Sagan
The Servants of Twilight by Dean Koontz
The Rivalry by John Feinstein
Red Dirt Diary 2 by Katrina Nannestad
Shadowkings by Michael Cobley
The Rules of Play by Jennie Walker
All the Devil's Creatures by Barnett, J.D.
Slam the Big Door by John D. MacDonald
