I couldn't make up my mind whether to write to him or what to do. Then, this morning the words ofJesus - "wise as serpents and harmless as doves" - flashed into my head and in a sudden burst ofcourage I decided to write him a letter.
I am Naoji's sister. If you have forgotten me, please-try to remember
I must apologize that Naoji has again been such a nuisance and caused you such bother. (As amatter of fact, I cannot help feeling that Naoji's affairs are for Naoji to decide, and it is nonsensicalfor me to offer an apology.) Today I am writing to ask you a favor - not for Naoji but for myself. Iheard from Naoji that your old place was destroyed during the war and that you have since moved toyour present address. I had thought of paying a visit to your house (which seems to be very far out inthe suburbs from Tokyo), but of late my mother's health has been rather poor, and I can't possiblyleave her to go up to Tokyo. That is why I made up my mind to write you a letter.
There is something I would like to discuss with you.
The matter I have to discuss may appear extremely dubious from the point of view of the usual"Etiquette for Young Women," or even a positive crime, but 1 - no, we - cannot go on living as wehave. I must therefore ask you, the person whom my brother Naoji respects most in the whole world, tobe so kind as to listen to my plain, unadorned feelings and to give me the benefit of your guidance.
My present life is unendurable. It is not a matter of like or dislike - we (my mother, Naoji, andmyself) - cannot possibly go on living this way
Yesterday I was in pain and feverish. I was hardly able to breathe and felt at a complete loss what todo with myself. A little after lunch the girl from the farmer's house down the road came in the rain witha load of rice on her back. I handed over to her the clothes I had promised. The girl sat facing me inthe dining-room, and as she drank some tea she said, in a really down-to-earth tone, "How muchlonger can you go on by selling your things?"
"Six months. Perhaps a year," I answered. Then, half covering my face with my right hand, Imurmured, "I'm sleepy. I'm so terribly sleepy."
"You're exhausted. It's nervous exhaustion."
"You may be right." At this moment, as I stood on the verge of tears, the words "realism" and"romanticism" welled up within me. I have no sense of realism. And that this very fact might be whatpermits me to go on living sends cold chills through my whole body. Mother is half an invalid andspends as much time in bed as up. Naoji, as you know, is mentally very sick. While he is here he spendsmost of his time at the local drinking place, and once every couple of days he takes whatever money wehave from selling our clothes and goes off to Tokyo. But that is not what hurts me. I am afraid becauseI can so clearly foresee my own life rotting away of itself, like a leaf that rots without falling, while Ipursue my round of existence from day to day. That is what I find impossible to bear, and why I mustescape from my present life, even if it means violating the whole code of young ladies' etiquette. Andnow I am asking your advice.
I want now to make an open declaration to my mother and to Naoji. I want to state with absoluteclarity that I have been in love for some time with a certain man, and that I intend in the future to liveas his mistress. I am quite sure you know who it is. His initials are M.C. Whenever anything painfulcomes up, I am seized with the desire to rush to his house and die of love with him.
M.C. like yourself has a wife and child. He also seems to have women friends more beautiful andyounger than I. But I feel that I cannot go on living except by going to him. I have never met M.C.'swife, but I hear that she is a very sweet and good person. Whenever I think of her, I seem in my owneyes a dreadful woman. I feel, though, that my present life is even more dreadful, and no considerationcan make me refrain from appealing to M.C. I would like to fulfill my love "wise as the serpent andharmless as the dove," but I am sure that no one, not my mother or Naoji or the rest of the world, willapprove of me. I wonder about you. In short, I have no choice but to think things out myself and acthowever it seems best to me. The thought brings tears. This is the first thing I have ever had, and Iwonder if there is a way to carry it through to the congratulations of those around me. I have strainedmy mental powers as if I were trying to think of the answer to some terribly complicated problem inalgebra, until at last I have come to feel that there is a single point where the whole thing may beunraveled, and suddenly I have become cheerful
But what does my precious M.C. think of me? That's a disheartening question. You might call me aself-styled - what shall I say, I can't say self-styled wife-perhaps a "self-styled lover." With that thesituation, if M.C. says he really can't endure me, I have nothing more to say. I have a favor to ask ofyou. Could you please ask him? One day six years ago a faint pale rainbow formed in my breast. It wasnot love or passion, but the colors of the rainbow have deepened and intensified as time has gone by.Never once have I lost it from sight. The rainbow that spans the sky when it clears after a shower soonfades away, but the rainbow in a person's heart does not seem to disappear that way. Please ask him. Iwonder what he really thinks of me. I wonder if he has thought of me as of a rainbow in the sky after ashower. And has it already faded away?
If it has, I must erase my own rainbow. But unless I first erase my life, the rainbow in my breast willnot fade away
I pray for an answer.
To Mr. Uehara Jiro. (My Chekhov. M.C.)
P.S. I have recently been putting on a little weight. I think it is less that I am turning into a brutecreature than that I have at last become human. This summer I read a novel (just one) by D. H.Lawrence.
No answer has come from you, and I am writi-ng- -ag- a-in. The letter I sent the other day wasunderhanded and full of snares. I suppose that you saw through every one of them. Yes, it's true. I triedto insert a maximum of cunning into every line of the letter. I imagine that you thought that my purposewas merely to elicit money from you to save my life. I don't deny this. However, I would like you toknow, if you'll excuse me for saying so, that if my only wish was for a patron I should not have chosenyou especially. I have the impression that quite a few rich old men would be willing to care for me. Asa matter of fact, not long ago I had something like a proposal. You may even know the gentleman'sname - he is a widower over sixty, a member of the Academy of Arts, I believe; this great artist camehere to the mountains in order to ask my hand. He used to be a neighbor of ours when we lived inNishikata Street, and we met him occasionally at neighborhood meetings. Once, it was an evening inautumn as I recall, when Mother and I passed in our car in front of this artist's house, he was standingabsent-mindedly by his gate. Mother nodded slightly to him from the car window, at which his peevish,sallow face suddenly turned a brilliant red.
"I wonder if it can be love," I said playfully. "He's in love with you, Mother!"
"No," Mother calmly answered, as if to herself. "He's a great man.
It seems to be our family's custom to honor artists.
The artist sent a proposal for my hand to Mother, by way of a certain prince, one of Uncle Wada'scronies, explaining that he had lost his wife some years ago. Mother suggested that I make a directreply to the artist in whatever way I saw fit. Without giving it very much thought, I dashed off a note tothe effect that I had at present no intention of remarrying.
"You don't mind if I refuse?" I asked Mother.
"I didn't myself think it was a likely match."
I sent my letter of refusal to the artist at his villa in the Japan Alps. Two days later he turned upwithout warning, having no knowledge of my answer because he had left before my letter reached him.He sent word that he was on his way to a hot spring in Izu and asked to pay a brief call. Artists,whatever their age, seem to indulge in the most childish, irresponsible pranks.
Mother was not feeling well, and I myself received him in the Chinese room. I said while pouringtea, "I imagine that my letter of refusal must have reached your house by now. I carefully consideredyour offer, but it somehow didn't seem possible."
"Indeed?" he said with some impatience. He wiped away the perspiration. "I hope that you willreconsider. Perhaps I can't - how shall I say it - give you what might be called spiritual happiness,but I can on the other hand make you very happy in a material way. That at least I can assure you. Ihope I don't speak too bluntly. . . ."
I don't understand that happiness you speak of. It may seem very impertinent, but I can onlyanswer, 'No, thank you.' I am what Nietzche described as 'a woman who wants to give birth to a child.'I want a child. Happiness does not interest me. I do want money too, but just enough to be able tobring up my child."
The artist gave an odd smile. "You are a very unusual woman. You can put into words what everyonehas thought. To live with you might cause fresh inspiration to come into my work."
He said this rather affected thing in a manner quite unlike an old man. The thought occurred to methat if through my strength the work of so great an artist could really be rejuvenated, this too wouldcertainly be a reason to go on living. But no stretch of the imagination enabled me to visualize myselfin the artist's arms
I asked with a little smile, "Doesn't it make any difference to you that I don't love you?"
He answered seriously, "It doesn't matter for a woman. A woman can be vague."
"But a woman like myself cannot think of marriage without love. I am fully grown. Next year I willbe thirty." I was taken aback at my own words.
Thirty. "Something of the maiden's fragrance lingers with a woman until she is twenty-nine, butnothing is left about the body of the woman of thirty years." At the sudden recollection of these wordsfrom a French novel I had read long ago, I was assailed by a melancholy I could not drive away. Ilooked outside. The sea, bathed in the noon glare, glittered with the dazzling intensity of bits of brokenglass. I remembered that when I had read those words in the novel, I had lightly assented, thinkingthem probably true. I felt a sharp nostalgia for those days when I could think with equanimity that awoman's life was over at thirty. I wondered if the maiden fragrance of my body was fading away witheach bracelet, necklace, and dress that I sold. A wretched, middle-aged woman. And yet, even amiddle-aged woman's life contains a woman's life, doesn't it? That is what I have come of late tounderstand. I remember what my teacher, an Englishwoman, said to me, then aged nineteen, when shewas about to return to her country.
"You should never fall in love. Love will bring you unhappiness. If you must love, let it be when youare older, after you are thirty."
Her words could only arouse in me a dumb incredulity. It was quite impossible for me at the timeeven to imagine life after thirty
The artist suddenly spoke, his voice edged with spite, "I've heard a rumor that you are selling thehouse. I wonder if it's true."
I laughed. "Excuse me, but I just remembered The Cherry Orchard. I suppose you would like to buyit?"
He twisted his mouth in an angry scowl and did not answer. Artist that he was, he was quick toguess my meaning.
It was true that there had been talk of selling the house to a prince, but it had never come toanything, and I was surprised that the artist had even heard the rumor. But that we should have beenthinking of him in terms of Lopakhin in The Cherry Orchard was so distasteful that he quite lost hisgood humor, and after a few minutes more of small talk, he left.
What I ask of you now is not that you be a Lopakhin. That much I can warrant you. But please listento the presumption of a middle-aged woman.
It is already six years since we met. At the time I knew nothing about you except that you were mybrother's teacher, and at that a rather peculiar teacher. We drank sake together from glasses, and youwere a little bold. That didn't bother me. It only gave me the most curious sensation of buoyancy. Ididn't like or dislike you - I had no feeling at all. Later, in order to please my brother, I borrowedsome of your novels from him and read them. Sometimes I found them interesting, sometimes not. Iconfess I was not a very passionate reader. But during the past six years, from just when I can't say,the remembrance of you has soaked into me like some all-pervasive fog, and what we did that night onthe stairs from the basement has returned to me with absolute vividness. I feel somehow as if thatmoment was vital enough to decide my fate. I miss you. Perhaps, I think, it may be love, and at thispossibility I have felt so utterly forlorn that I have sometimes yielded to uncontrolled weeping. You arecompletely unlike other men. I am not in love with an author, like Nina in The Sea Gull. I am notfascinated by novelists. If you think me a "literary lady" or anything of the kind, you are off the track.I want a child from you.
Perhaps if I had met you long, long ago, when you and I were both still single, we might havemarried, and I should have been spared my present sufferings, but I have resigned myself to the factthat I shall never be able to marry you. For me to attempt to push aside your wife would be like an actof brute force, and I should hate myself for it. I am willing to become your mistress. (I really can't bearthe word, but when I was on the point of writing "lover," I realized that I meant what people generallydo by the word "mistress," and I decided to be blunt.) I gather that the usual mistress has a hard lot.They say that she is abandoned as soon as she ceases to be of use, and that a man, whatever sort ofman he may be, will always return to his wife when he approaches sixty. I remember hearing my nurseand the old man of Nishikata Street discussing this matter and concluding that a mistress was onething a woman should never become. But they were talking about an ordinary mistress, and I feel thatour case is different.
I believe that your work is the most precious thing in the world to you, and that if you like me,becoming intimate with me may actually help your work. And your wife would then also be willing toaccept our relationship. I know this may seem an odd kind of sophistry, but I am convinced that thereis nothing amiss with my reasoning.
The only problem is your answer. Do you like me or dislike me? Or have you no feelings on thesubject? I am terrified at what you may reply, but I must ask anyway. In my last letter, I wrote that Iwas a "self-styled lover," and in this letter, I have written about the "presumption of a middle-agedwoman." It now occurs to me that unless you answer I shall have no grounds whatsoever even forpresumption and shall probably be doomed to waste away the rest of my life alone. I am lost unless Ihear from you
In your novels you often describe love adventures, and people gossip about you as if you were anabsolute monster, but it has suddenly dawned on me that you probably are actually an advocate ofcommon sense. I do not myself understand common sense. I believe that the good life consists in beingable to do what I like. J want to give birth to your child. I don't want to bear anyone else's child, nomatter what happens. 1 ask your advice. If you know the answer, please tell me. Please say clearlywhat your feelings are
The rain has stopped and a wind has sprung up. It is now three o'clock in the afternoon. I shall goout now to get our ration of the best quality sake. I shall put two empty rum bottles in a bag and thisletter in my pocket, and in ten minutes I shall be on my way to the village down the hill. I shall not letmy brother get this sake. I myself intend to drink it. Every night I drink a little from a glass. You know,sake really should be drunk from a glass.
Won't you come here?
To Mr. M.C.
It rained again today. An invisible, nasty mixt-u-re- o-f-fog and rain is falling. Every day I have waitedfor your answer without even leaving the house, but nothing has come. What are you thinking about? Iwonder if I did the wrong thing in my last letter in writing about that artist. Perhaps you thought Imentioned his proposal in order to arouse your competitive spirit. But nothing more has come of it.Just a little while ago, as a matter of fact, Mother and I were laughing over it. Mother has recentlybeen complaining about pain in her tongue, but thanks to the "aesthetic treatment" which Naojiprescribed, the pain has been much alleviated, and she has seemed rather better of late.
A few minutes ago I was standing on the porch, and as I looked at the rain being blown and swirledabout, I was trying to picture what your feelings are. Just then Mother's voice called from the diningroom, "I have finished boiling the milk. Please come here."
"It's so cold today I've made the milk very hot," she said.
As we drank the steaming milk, we talked about the artist. I said, "He and I are not the least suited,are we?"
Mother answered tranquilly, "No, you aren't."
"Considering the wayward type I am, that I don't dislike artists and, what's more, that he seems tohave a large income, it certainly looked like a good match. But it's quite impossible."
Mother smiled. "Kazuko, you're a naughty child. If you were so sure that it was impossible, why inthe world did you lead him on that way by chattering with such relish when he was here? I can'timagine your motive."
"Oh, but it was interesting. There's a lot more I would like to have talked about. I have nodiscretion, you know."
"No, you never let anybody go in a conversation. Kazuko, you're tenacious!"
Mother was in very good spirits today. Then, noticing that I had put my hair up yesterday for thefirst time, she commented, "That style is made for women with thin hair. Your up-sweep looks much toogrand. All that is missing is a little golden tiara. I'm afraid it's a failure."
"I'm disappointed. Didn't you once tell me that my neckline was so pretty that I should try not tohide it? Didn't you?"
"Yes, I seem to remember something of the sort."
"I never forget a syllable of praise addressed to me. I'm so glad you remembered."
"That gentleman who came the other day must have praised you."
"Yes, he did. That's why I wouldn't let him out of my clutches. He said that being with me made hisinspiration-no, I can't go on. It isn't that I dislike artists, but I can't stand anyone who puts on thoseponderous airs of a man of character."
"What kind of man is Naoji's teacher?"
I felt a chill go through me. "I don't really know, but what can you expect from a teacher of Naoji's.He seems to be tagged as a dissolute character."
"Tagged?" murmured Mother with a pleased look in her eyes. "That's an interesting expression. Ifhe wears a tag, doesn't that make him harmless? It sounds rather sweet, like a kitten with a bellaround its neck. A dissolute character without a tag is what frightens me."
"I wonder."
I felt happy, so happy; it was as though my body had dissolved into smoke and was being drawn upinto the sky. Do you understand? Why I was so happy? If you don't, I'll hit you!
Won't you come here sometime? I would ask Naoji to bring you back with him, but there's somethingunnatural and peculiar about asking him. It would be best if you suddenly dropped in, as if acting onsome whim of yours. It wouldn't matter much if you came with Naoji, but still, it would be best if itwere by yourself, when Naoji is away in Tokyo. If Naoji is here, he is sure to monopolize you, and youwill be taken off to Osaki's place to drink, and that will be that
My family for generations has always been fond of artists. Korin himself lived for years in our oldfamily house in Kyoto and painted beautiful pictures there, So I am sure Mother will be very pleased tohave you come. You will probably stay in the foreign. style room on the second floor. Please do notforget to turn off the light. I will climb the dark stairs with a little candle in my hand. You don'tapprove? Too fast, I suppose!
I like dissolute people, especially those who wear their tags. I would like to become dissolutemyself. I feel as if there is no other way for me to live. You are the most notorious example in Japan ofa tagged dissolute, I suppose. Naoji has told me that many people say you are dirty and repulsive, andthat you are hated and often attacked. Such stories only make me love you all the more. I am sure,considering who you are, that you must have all kinds of amies, but now you will gradually come tolove only me. I can't help thinking that. When you are living with me, you will be happy in your work.Ever since I was small, people have often told me that to be with me is to forget one's troubles. I havenever had the experience of being disliked. Everyone has called me a "nice girl." That's why I am sosure that you could never dislike me.
It would be so good if we could meet. I no longer need an answer from you or anything else. I wantto meet you. I suppose that the simplest thing would be for me to go to your house in Tokyo, but I amMother's nurse and servant in constant attendance, and I couldn't possibly leave her. I beg you. Pleasecome here. I want to meet you just once. Then you will understand everything. See the faint lines thathave etched themselves on both sides of my mouth. Behold the wrinkles of the malheur du siècle. I amsure that ray face will express my feeling to you more clearly than any words
In my first letter I wrote of a rainbow in my breast. That rainbow is not of the refined beauty of thelight of fireflies or of the stars. If it were so faint and faraway, I would not be suffering this way, and Icould probably forget you gradually. The rainbow in my breast is a bridge of flames. It is a sensationso strong that it chars my breast. Not even the craving of a narcotics addict when his drugs run out canbe as painful as this. I am certain that I am not mistaken, that it is not wicked of me, but even whenmost persuaded, I sometimes shudder at the thought that I may be attempting to do an extraordinarilyfoolish thing. And I often wonder if I am not going mad. However, sometimes even I am capable ofmaking plans with due self-possession. Please come here just this once. Any time at all will suit me. Iwill wait here for you and not go anywhere. Please believe me.
Please see me again and then, if you dislike me, say so plainly. The flames in my breast were lightedby you; it is up to you to extinguish them. I can't put them out by my unaided efforts. If we meet, if wecan only meet, I know that I shall be saved. Were these the days of The Tale of Genji, what I am sayingnow would not be anything exceptional, but today - oh, my ambition is to become your mistress andthe mother of your child
If there is anyone who would laugh at letters like these, he is a man who derides a woman's effortsto go on living, he mocks at a woman's life. I am choking in the suffocating foul air of the harbor. Iwant to hoist my sails in the open sea, even though a tempest may be blowing. Furled sails are alwaysdirty. Those who would deride me are so many furled sails. They can do nothing.
A nuisance of a woman. But in this matter, it is I who suffer the most. It is nonsensical for someoutsider who has never suffered the least of what I have been going through to presume to makejudgments while slackly drooping his ugly sails. I have no desire for others to take it on themselves toanalyze my thoughts. I am without thoughts. I have never, not even once, acted on the basis of anydoctrine or philosophy
I am convinced that those people whom the world considers good and respects are all liars andfakes. I do not trust the world. My only ally is the tagged dissolute. The tagged dissolute. That is theonly cross on which I wish to be crucified. Though ten thousand people criticize me, I can throw intheir teeth my challenge: Are you not all the more dangerous for being without tags?
Do you understand?
There is no reason in love, and I have gone rather too far in offering you these rational-seemingarguments. I feel as if I am merely parroting my brother. All I want to say is that I await your visit. Iwant to see you again. That is all.
To wait. In our lives we know joy, anger, sorrow, and a hundred other emotions, but these emotionsall together occupy a bare one per cent of our time. The remaining ninety-nine per cent is just living inwaiting. I wait in momentary expectation, feeling as though my breasts are being crushed, for thesound in the corridor of the footsteps of happiness. Empty. Oh, life is too painful, the reality thatconfirms the universal belief that it is best not to be born.
Thus every day, from morning to night, I wait in despair for something. I wish I could be glad that Iwas born, that I am alive, that there are people and a world.
Won't you shove aside the morality that blocks you?
To M.C. (These are not the initials of My Chekhov. I am not in love with an author. My Child.)